


I Carry the Suitcase of My Grief in Both Hands, Ma

by withdiamonds



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-17
Updated: 2009-06-17
Packaged: 2017-10-15 10:43:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withdiamonds/pseuds/withdiamonds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of Broward County, Sam tries to come to terms with the Trickster’s lessons about what it will mean to lose Dean. Dean doesn’t appreciate Sam’s efforts to break his deal with the crossroads demon, and in the meantime, there’s a case to solve back in Florida, a place Sam swore he’d never set foot in again. Oh, and Sam’s been having visions of his mother throughout his entire life, visions he’s never told anyone about.  Spoilers through <i>Mystery Spot</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Carry the Suitcase of My Grief in Both Hands, Ma

"And in my hour of darkness, she is standing right in front of me…"

 

 _Sam Winchester was five years old the first time he dreamed about his mother._

 _She was beautiful, with long blonde hair swirling around her shoulders and a soft smile on her face. Her eyes glowed with love and her voice was like velvet in his ears._

 _"Sammy, my sweet baby, I love you, I’m so sorry, Sammy," she crooned and then she was gone and Sammy shivered in the dark, lonely and afraid._

 _He wasn’t alone, though. Dean was there, curled up beside him on their narrow bed. Sammy moved closer, snuggled into Dean and closed his eyes, already asleep again._

 

Sam couldn’t get them out of Broward County fast enough. He couldn’t get them out of fucking _Florida_ fast enough. Trust the Trickster to use a fucked-up place like Florida as a playground. Sam was letting Dean drive, but only because he knew Dean would get them the hell away from that god-forsaken place in a hurry. Sam’s hands shook with the need to take the wheel and just _go._

It was a shock when he opened the trunk to load their bags and saw the controlled chaos that Dean maintained in there. Sam remembered where everything was, sure, but he’d just spent six months keeping the Impala as organized as their father’s truck had ever been, and his fingers itched to restore order to the trunk and its contents.

He grit his teeth and slammed the trunk lid closed.

Sam’s eyes swept the motel parking lot, his heart racing, looking for any sign of danger. It could come from anywhere, he knew that now more than ever, and he needed to get Dean away. He practically shoved his brother into the car, making a face at the empty fast food wrappers scattered on the floor at his feet.

“What?” Dean said, but Sam ignored him in favor of trying to get his heart rate down to normal. He automatically employed the same biofeedback technique he used when he stitched up his own injuries or when he was trying to approach a nest of vampires undetected.

The road pulled them along, up the length of Florida, around the curve of the Panhandle toward Alabama, and Sam finally felt like he could breathe again. Dean kept shooting him concerned looks from behind the wheel, but Sam just sat, shoulders tight, hands unmoving on his thighs, and stared out the window as Florida slipped away behind them.

He knew they’d been on the road for hours, but the passage of time barely registered until Dean suddenly spoke, making Sam jump. He wasn't used to hearing Dean's voice anymore.

“Sammy, I gotta stop, dude. I mean, I can keep driving forever if that’s what you want, but I could use some shut-eye here. I’m not the Energizer Bunny.” He actually sounded sad about that. Sam finally turned to look at his brother, half-afraid he was an illusion, conjured up out of Sam’s grief and despair.

It wouldn’t be the first time. He hadn’t been able to bear the silence at the start of that interminable Wednesday, when Dean’s absence was almost a physical presence next to him in the car. There were times when he was so delirious with grief and loss that he imagined Dean was there beside him.

But now Dean _was_ with him, he was _real_ , and his eyes were red with exhaustion, his face pale with it. Sam glanced at his watch and looked around in surprise at the setting sun. Road signs said they somewhere in Alabama, just across the state line from the Florida Panhandle.

They’d stopped earlier for food in Tallahassee, Sam swallowing around cardboard and sawdust, Dean happily shoveling onion rings and a cheeseburger into his mouth while he asked Sam where they should head to next.

Sam managed a weak smile and a shrug. He’d learned during the time he was alone – _yesterday_ his mind screamed at him, _it was just yesterday_ \- the time without Dean, when Dean was gone, dead and gone to Hell and Sam couldn’t stop it from happening, couldn’t get him back, couldn’t find the goddamn Trickster – he blinked to see Dean looking at him with fond worry across the table. Sam swallowed. He learned during that time that he needed to eat, that he couldn’t keep going if he didn’t. It was no different than fueling up the Impala. Nothing could run on empty forever.

Sleep was important, too. Fatigue made you sloppy, made you weak. Everything needed rest if it was to continue to function. “Pull over when you see a good spot,” Sam said. His voice was rusty with disuse. He hadn’t had anyone to talk to for a long time and he was out of the habit. “We can sleep in the car.”

They pulled off the side of the road next to some kind of swamp-like area, a clump of trees concealing them from passing cars. Sam checked to see his gun was loaded and told Dean to do the same.

Dean tipped his head back against the seat, sighing. “Christ, I’m tired.” He glanced over at Sam, and then looked away again, gazing up at the stars slowly becoming visible in the darkening sky. “So, Sam. You gonna tell me what else happened during your Freaky Friday?” He cut his eyes over at Sam curiously. “How many Tuesdays did you actually have? You never said.” His voice sounded unconcerned, but Sam knew better. He heard the undercurrent of worry beneath the light tone.

Sam couldn’t imagine how to even begin to answer that question. How to begin to describe the hellish existence he’d been living for over a year. He didn't think he'd be able to cope with Dean's reaction to that, to seeing the horror on his face.

He shrugged and watched the breeze move through the trees outside the sanctuary of the car. “Around a hundred, I guess. Give or take a few.” There had been one hundred and seven Tuesdays exactly, and Sam was going to remember each and every one of them for the rest of his life.

“Uh huh. That’s it? Nothing else happened I should know about?” Dean sounded big-brother stern, but Sam wasn’t fooled. Dean really didn’t want to know. Sam felt a flash of almost-resentment at that. Dean had made his deal and was going to leave Sam to the consequences, all the while forbidding Sam to actually try to do anything to fix it, and the less he thought about what that meant for Sam the happier he was.

Sam pushed the traitorous thoughts aside, a hollow ache in his chest at the way they made him feel, like he was betraying Dean’s sacrifice with ingratitude. Guilt twisted his stomach.

“Yeah, no, that was all.” He shoved the endless span of time when he’d thought Dean was dead down as deep as it would go.

“Okay.” Dean sounded tired and not inclined to argue, and Sam allowed himself to relax an infinitesimal amount. He rested his head on the seat back, mirroring Dean's position, and tilted his face toward Dean.

It never failed to amaze him, his brother’s beauty. The moon rose above them, reflected on the still, black surface of the swamp like a shining path, dappling the shifting leaves on the trees with the kind of beautiful that made Sam’s throat tighten.

It was nothing compared to Dean.

Sam suddenly ached with want. It had been a long six months and he desperately needed to know his brother was warm and alive again.

It was worth the risk of rejection.

“Dean?” He let his voice ask the question. Dean stilled beside him and Sam held his breath, his heart beating rapidly.

He waited.

It was complicated, asking for this. Sam knew Dean’s limits, hell, he’d spent his whole life learning to read Dean’s moods. He knew when and how to make his approach in a way that would get him the response he wanted. Dean had issues with _things_ and over the years Sam had learned where his brother’s walls were and how to breach them.

It was like rationing out some kind of precious commodity, the same as when they had to make a bag of M&Ms last all day when they were kids stuck in the car for hours on end and one bag was all they had to share between them. Dean always wanted to eat all the candy at once, but Sam made him wait for it, made him go slow.

With this, though, it was different. With this, it was Sam who had to go slow and never ask for too much at once. Dean rationed himself out one small piece at a time. Thanks to Dean, Sam had learned the virtues of patience and perseverance before he was fifteen years old.

Sam’s brain insisted on rationing out the remaining hours of Dean's life, too, one by one, marking the time in moments and actions like some kind of frantic flow chart. No matter how hard he tried, Sam couldn't turn it off.

And Dean, Dean was living life to the fullest, running through the hours and times like he didn’t have a care in the world. Sam knew better, could see the terror behind the devil-may-care attitude, but it still felt like those M&Ms, and Sam wanted to savor each and every one of them.

And then every once in a while Dean let the fear bleed through his carefree façade and Sam had to bite his tongue to keep from calling him weak.

Guilt was an old friend at this point in Sam’s life, but now it left him heart-broken and shaking.

He couldn’t have asked for anything like this during the long expanse of Tuesdays. There was danger in the smallest detail of that existence and Dean had come to seem vulnerable and defenseless, in need of every protection. Sam had spent his waking moments waiting for the inevitable killing blow to come. There’d been no room for anything else.

Now, beside him, Dean gave a sigh that Sam could interpret as acquiescence if he wanted to. Sam reached a tentative hand out and brushed it over Dean’s thigh. It tensed under Sam’s touch and Sam remained motionless until Dean relaxed.

It had been so long Sam almost didn’t remember how they did this.

Dean shifted out from behind the steering wheel, moving closer. It was warm where they touched and Sam wanted to feel Dean’s skin.

The night was hot, muggy with swamp air, and they were alone out in the middle of nowhere. Sam needed to see Dean, see for himself that Dean was unmarked, that there was no blood; no bullet holes anywhere, no knife wounds or arrows piercing his chest.

Sam tugged at Dean’s shirt, and Dean leaned up to help. He seemed to sense Sam’s sudden frantic urgency, because he didn’t say much beyond soft murmurs of encouragement. He freed his arms from the cuffs of his olive drab shirt and pulled his t-shirt over his head, settling back and letting Sam put his hands on him at last.

Sam touched Dean everywhere he could reach, running his fingers over every inch of exposed skin. He turned his face into Dean’s neck and heard Dean’s whisper of _it’s okay, Sammy, I’m fine, I’m still here._ Whatever Dean may have thought about the intensity of Sam’s reaction, he let it be and for that Sam was grateful.

The evidence of Sam’s own hands, his mouth, almost wasn’t enough for him to believe. He felt Dean, warm and alive beside him, tasted his skin, smelled his scent, but he needed more. This was all there was, though, there was nothing more to touch, to taste or smell. Nothing more than what was right here under his hands.

They kissed for what seemed like hours, or maybe it was only minutes. It wasn’t as if Sam’s sense of time wasn’t warped all to hell and back.

Sam pushed Dean’s jeans down past his hips, reaching in, and the weight of Dean seared his palm with sense memory. The feel of Dean’s strong fingers wrapped around Sam’s dick made him gasp with something like discovery. Dean was a revelation, and he shouldn’t be. He should be familiar, and Sam felt his eyes burn.

Sam couldn’t lose Dean again. He had to keep his brother alive. Anything else was unthinkable.

When Sam came the only thought he had was _never again. I’m not letting you go again._

They rested together, sticky and sated, until Dean started snoring softly and Sam laughed him awake. “Dude, you sound like a chainsaw.” He wanted to say _thank you_ but he didn’t know how.

He didn’t know when Dean would let him touch him next.

Sam stretched out in the back seat, Dean in the front.

Sam watched Dean sleep for a long time before he let his eyes close.

 

 _Sam’s mother’s face was dark and shadowed, her eyes hard. He knew what she thought about this thing between him and Dean, but he couldn’t help himself, didn’t want to help himself, and in spite of his best efforts, Dean couldn’t either._

 _But she was there in the dark night, where Sam slept fitfully in his brother's car, when the noise of the insects had quieted sometime before dawn and the stars were starting to fade from the sky._

 _"Are you lonely, Sam? Do you love Dean? You have to save him, Sam. He loves you. I love you." Her voice changed into the sound of gulls, and Sam woke up with the morning sun on his face._

 

They made their way northward. Sam began to relax in the cooler weather of Tennessee and they meandered around with no fixed destination yet in mind. Dean checked local and national newspapers as they ate greasy Southern breakfasts of grits and home fries and eggs. Sam clicked on promising links, his laptop open on the table next to endless cups of coffee.

It was a strange adjustment, and not an easy one, to go from what he’d become without Dean by his side to having Dean there with him again. Sam didn’t trust it, but he tried his damnedest to keep that hidden from his brother.

“What the fuck, Sam?” Dean growled one night as he turned around after getting a candy bar from the vending machine outside their motel room and practically tripping over Sam. “Quit sneakin’ up on me!”

“I wasn’t sneaking up on you, dude. I just want a snack,” Sam said indignantly, gasping in pain as Dean shoved his candy bar in Sam’s chest with a lot more force than Sam considered necessary.

“There. It’s all yours, Willy Wonka.” Dean shouldered past him and back to their room.

Okay, so maybe he wasn’t being as stealthy as he thought.

It was easy to find time to call Bobby while Dean was off washing the Impala. Dean hated automated carwashes, the ones that took control of the car away from him and sprayed hard jets of recycled water and dirty soap. But the road dust accumulated and sometimes there were no other options.

Sam remembered scrubbing the black finish of Dean’s car, bent over in the hot sun or shivering in the chill winds of wherever the hunt had taken him when he’d been alone. He had felt compelled to keep Dean’s car pristine, as if that would make some kind of difference.

“Bobby, hey,” Sam said when Bobby picked up.

“What’s up, Sam?” The last time Sam had heard Bobby’s voice, it had been broken, begging Sam to kill him, to make him a blood sacrifice for Dean’s life. Sam flinched at the memory of how prepared he'd been to do just that. He’d suspected it wasn’t really Bobby kneeling before him, shoulders hunched and ready to die, but he really wouldn’t have cared much if he’d been wrong.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah, Bobby. Listen, I need your help. There’s something I want to try.”

Whether Bobby had really known a spell capable of summoning a Trickster wasn’t important. But it made Sam think about summoning spells, and about items on a list his father had given him in a hospital room in a time that seemed like forever ago. About deals made and how to break them.

Bobby argued against it, but in the end Sam had a list of his own.

Getting hold of what he needed proved to be more difficult than convincing Bobby to tell him what was on the list in the first place. Dean wasn’t stupid, and he wasn’t unobservant, but if Sam sometimes forgot he wasn’t alone, he didn’t think he could be blamed for that.

Dean finding out was inevitable.

Sam wasn't sure when he'd ever seen Dean so angry. In some ways it was a welcome change from the defiant resignation Sam had been dealing with since Dean had bargained away his soul in exchange for Sam's life.

“First you shoot the crossroads demon, then you let that demon bitch Ruby lead you around by the balls, and now this? Christ, Sam!” Dean paced across their motel room, face tight with fury. He shoved a pair of jeans angrily into his duffle, then cast a glance around and grabbed a couple of dirty socks off the floor and stuffed them in, too.

Sam sighed. “Bobby said -”

“Fuck Bobby! And fuck you, too.” Dean yanked his cell phone out of his jacket, grappling with the material to free it from the pocket. He flipped it open and hit the buttons angrily. “Goddammit, Bobby, what the fuck?” he spit when Bobby answered.

Sam could hear the low rumble of Bobby’s reply and then Dean snapped impatiently, “I don’t care. It’s bullshit, Bobby.” He took another furious turn around the small room, listening, and when he spoke again, his voice had acquired a raspy note of pleading.

“It’s dangerous, Bobby. If we break the deal, Sam dies.” He paused again, then said, “I appreciate you looking, Bobby, you know I do. Just – leave Sam out of it. It’s not worth the risk.”

Sam heard the unspoken _**I’m** not worth the risk_ and that was it. He’d had enough. He stood and crossed the room in two long strides, plucking his Dean’s phone right out of his hand and planting his palm in the middle of his brother’s chest to keep him at bay. Dean glowered up at him.

“So help me God, Sam -”

Sam ignored him as he brought the phone to his ear.

“Hey, Bobby. Yeah, I know. Sorry about that. I know. I will. Talk to you later. Thanks.” He closed the phone and handed it back to Dean, looking steadily at him. "Dean. It's fine."

Dean was obviously holding himself back from taking a swing at Sam with great effort. That was fine, too. It was all fine. Sam didn’t care much one way or the other if Dean needed to express himself with his fists. Maybe if he got fired up enough he'd put some of that _enthusiasm_ into saving himself. Sam was okay with doing the heavy lifting, but he wanted Dean to at least give a shit. He needed Dean to actively _want_ to live.

“Dean, relax. There are a few other things I’m going to try first. Besides, we still don’t know the name of the demon who holds your contract, so it’d be kind of hard to summon it right this minute.” Sam stepped into the small bathroom and grabbed his shaving kit. He stopped and stared down at the tube of toothpaste on the back of the sink. A week was all it had taken, and there it was, squeezed from the middle, sticky with smeared gooey stuff all over the outside.

It made his heart race with something like joy.

He stalked out of the bathroom, holding the toothpaste out toward Dean as if it were about to explode. "Dude. Do you mind?" As a diversionary tactic, it wasn’t very effective. Dean apparently wasn't done yelling at him yet.

“Relax? You want me to _relax?_ ” Dean looked like he might have a stroke any minute, and while there was nothing remotely funny about any of this, Sam couldn’t suppress a smile, because he had missed this.

The smile was the equivalent of waving a red flag in front of a bull. Or a very bull-headed brother, one with a death sentence hanging over him, who thought his life was worth less than Sam's. That effectively got rid of Sam’s smile.

“No, I want you to let me find a way to save you, Dean,” Sam said flatly, his hand dropping to his side, still clutching the sticky toothpaste.

“You were going to do a summoning ritual, Sam. You were going to try to summon whatever fucking demon holds my contract. We don’t even know who that is, and you were going to try summoning the damn thing.” Dean homed right in on the fact that Sam didn’t even know which demon he would be attempting to summon and he spoke as if to a very stupid, very recalcitrant child. “You could have summoned every goddamn demon in Hell for all you know!” Dean shoved a pile of Sam’s books off the top of the dresser with one swift, angry move.

“Yeah, well, Bobby thought he knew a way to summon only that specific demon. Turns out he doesn’t yet, so I don’t know what you’re getting so bent out of shape about.” Sam was perfectly willing to drag every demon in existence topside if it meant he could break Dean’s contract, but he wasn’t so far gone that he said that out loud. Demons could walk the earth forever as far as he was concerned, if it kept his brother safe.

“And also, what the fuck is this?” Dean hissed, waving a piece of paper in Sam’s face. Oh, shit. “Is this from that demon bitch? Is this _witch_ stuff?”

It was, in fact, a page from an ancient text, describing a kind of summoning ritual using witchcraft. He’d gotten it from Ruby.

Sam snatched the paper out of Dean’s hand. “It’s nothing. Just some research.”

“Do you even know how buckets of crazy it is, Sam?” Dean was almost pleading with him now.

“Whatever, Dean. You said you didn’t want to know the details if I was going to try and break your deal. No one told you to go snooping around in my stuff, so just quit bitching about it. I’m trying to save you, Dean, even if you don’t want to be saved.” Sam’s voice had risen by the end of his little outburst. Dean’s refusal to help himself, his one grudging admission that he even wanted to be saved, made Sam crazy frustrated.

Dean’s face flushed with anger. “I’m not gonna let you fuck yourself over for me, Sam. Not after everything I've -”

“"Everything you've done to make sure I live and you die?" Sam interrupted. Dean paled and looked away at that, and Sam went on. "But it’s okay for you to sacrifice yourself for me, Dean? That’s okay? You’re a selfish bastard, you know that? What the fuck am I supposed to do when you’re gone? Knowing -” Sam broke off. It wasn’t Dean he was angry at. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be, because if he went there he wasn’t sure he could find his way back again.

“Dean -” Sam reached out and laid his hand on his brother’s arm. The sheer _life_ Sam felt in the warm muscle made Sam tremble. Dean shook him off. Sam felt a rush of need go through him so strong it almost brought him to his knees. He knew this was the absolute wrong time to ask, but he couldn’t stop the words.

“Dean, please,” he said, his heart in his throat.

Dean looked at him, hurt and guilt and fear plain as day on his face. Then his eyes shuttered and his face smoothed out and he said, “Time to go. We’re wasting daylight.” He slung his duffle over his shoulder and walked out the door.

Sam finished packing and followed him. He tossed the toothpaste in the trashcan on the way out. He’d buy a new tube later.

 

 _His mother was afraid, her beautiful face full of fear. Sam didn't know why, but it made him feel guilty. It made her less beautiful, except for the way her eyes shone with tears._

 _"There are so many things, Sam," she moaned. "So many things."_

 _"So many things? What does that mean, Mom?" Sam asked._

 _But Mary didn't answer him. "Be careful, Sam. I love you."_

 _When Sam woke up, he was drenched in a cold sweat, and he sat up, gasping. He knew Dean was awake, he heard him shifting in his bed, the rustle of skin against fabric, but he didn't speak. Sam waited, waited for the comfort that usually came after a nightmare, but Dean stayed where he was._

 _And Sam remembered that he wasn’t a little boy anymore. He hadn’t been for a very long time._

 _His mother had never been a nightmare before, and Sam huddled under the sheets while the sweat cooled on his skin._

 

Two days later, they were still in Tennessee and Dean was still pissed.

They quickly and successfully got rid of a poltergeist that was haunting a very large family who lived in a run-down farmhouse outside of Knoxville. It only threw Dean against one door and one bookcase before they managed to get the hex bags in the walls.

Sam had a small heart attack when he saw Dean go flying.

“Dean!” Sam heaved his brother up by the arm, and then forgot to let go. He ran his other hand over Dean’s chest and ribs, checking for damage.

“I’m fine, Sam. Get off me.” Dean pushed Sam away.

The family was so noisy and boisterous they'd barely even noticed there was anything wrong until their cat had repeatedly ended up in the oven. Every evening the mother would try to make supper and every time she’d open the oven door, she'd find the cat inside, frantic to escape.

Sam thought the cat was the most grateful out of all of them that the poltergeist was gone.

“I just thought it was Stevie,” the dad shrugged, patting his youngest on the head when Dean asked him why he hadn’t thought it was weird that all the chairs in the house were in a different place every morning when he came downstairs.

The mother pressed sandwiches and homemade cookies on them as they climbed into the Impala to leave. Her face was dull with exhaustion, and she pushed a limp strand of hair out of her eyes with the back of her wrist. She tried to smile. Watching the kids chase one another around the sad patches of grass struggling to grow in the dry dirt of the front yard, Sam hoped she managed to at least get some sleep now that her house had stopped rearranging itself.

They headed toward a whole lot of nowhere for a day and a half. Sam wouldn't call it driving around aimlessly, Dean never drove aimlessly, but once again they had no real destination.

Dean wasn’t really talking to him yet, although it would be too much to call it pouting. At least, Sam wouldn’t call it that to Dean’s face.

“Dude,” Sam tried that night when they were getting ready for bed.

“Go to bed, Sam,” Dean answered as he disappeared into the bathroom. Since nobody Sam knew loved taking showers more than Dean did, Sam figured he’d seen the last of his brother for the evening. He gave up and went to bed.

And then the next morning at breakfast, Dean found a case in Florida.

"Okay, this is weird." Dean's voice was flat, as if to say that what he really meant was he honestly didn't give a shit about any of this crap. Sam grunted in response, not bothering to look up from his laptop. He didn't really give a shit, either, truth be told. He was busy reading about some guy who claimed to have come back from Hell a year after he died. Guy was probably full of shit, but Sam wanted to see what he had to say.

"Sam," Dean said, waving a hand in front of Sam's face. "Hey, Earth to Sam." Sam batted Dean's hand away and lowered the lid of his computer an inch or two.

"What?"

Sam looked at Dean across the table for just a minute, and then glanced away. He'd read once that if you stared at the bridge of a person's nose, it made it seem like you were meeting their eyes when you really weren’t. Sam wasn't much for meeting Dean's eyes right now. He didn't like what he saw there. It made him angry and sad and helpless. Those weren't emotions Dean responded well to Sam displaying at all.

It wasn’t like Dean to stay mad this long. Sam thought maybe he was going for some sort of record. Like the record he’d set when Sam went off to Stanford, maybe. But Dean didn’t have years to piss away this time, and he was just going to have to get over himself.

It was hard to look at Dean's nose while Dean talked, because Sam had always been fascinated by the little bend in it, so he focused on a point over Dean’s right shoulder instead.

There was a family eating in the booth behind them, a worn down-looking father with tired eyes and two small boys. The older boy looked to be around ten, with a smudge of dirt on his chin, his thin wrists sticking out the ends of the too-short sleeves of his faded denim jacket. The younger one wore thick glasses that made his eyes look magnified, and he kept them on his brother with an expression of such hero worship that Sam had to swallow around the sudden tightness in his throat.

They didn't appear to have a mother, at least not one that was with them.

"Sam!" Dean's voice was sharp. "Are you listening, here, or what?" Dean frowned and the angles of his face made him look older than his years. Sam wondered if the months he’d spent watching Dean die every day and then the half a year he’d spent thinking his brother was dead showed on his own face. Which of the tight lines around his mouth or the worry lines on his forehead could be attributed to the Trickster instead of the normal passage of time?

"Yeah, I'm listening," Sam said, and he put on his best _see, I'm interested expression._ Dean snorted and turned his face to the window, giving the street outside his best thousand yard stare. “Dean.” Dean blinked and looked back at Sam.

"Right." He looked down at the newspaper folded under his hands. "Okay, so this guy in Sarasota killed his wife. He smothered her in her sleep with a pillow, scattered roses all around the room, and told the cops he had to do it because he loved her too much. Crazycakes, right?" Dean picked up the paper and turned it around to show Sam a picture of a sad-looking man with dreamy vacant eyes. It was a grainy photo, but Sam could still see the guy’s eyes were all wrong.

“’I loved her too much to let her live,’” Sam read aloud from the caption under the picture. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Dean shrugged. “What do you say we go check it out?” He folded the newspaper and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket, then picked up his coffee cup and drained it in one swallow.

Sam watched the movement of his throat, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed.

And then it dawned on him what Dean had said. Fucking _Florida_. Dean wanted Sam to go back to Florida. No way. Sam had vowed that he would never set foot in that god-forsaken state ever again.

Dean stood up and threw a twenty on the table. “Sam. You comin’?” he said impatiently, and then he turned away and walked to the door, hitching his jacket straight on his shoulders and popping his collar up.

Sam followed him.

 

 _When Sam was six, they spent the Fourth of July at Pastor Jim’s. He and Dean slept in a tent in the backyard. There were fireworks and they were loud, but they made Dean laugh, so Sam knew he didn’t have to be scared. He could always tell by looking at Dean whether he should be scared or not._

 _He dreamed about his mother that night in the tent. There were fireworks in her eyes, red and yellow flashes, and her laugh shimmered all around him. “Sammy, my sweet little boy.” Her smile was bright and sparkly when she said, “You don’t have to be afraid.”_

 _In the morning he wanted to ask Dean what color their mother’s eyes were, but he forgot._

 

It was a twelve-hour drive to Sarasota from wherever the hell they were. Dean was worn-out and wired as tightly as Sam had ever seen him, but he got stubborn and insisted on driving. Eventually Sam tricked him into leaving the keys in the car when they stopped to get gas.

“Give me my goddamn keys, Sam.” Dean’s voice was flat, his stare deadly. Sam wondered idly what Dean’s face would look like if Sam punched him, pictured blood running from his nose and dripping from his chin.

“No. I’m driving,” he said. Dean glared at him a moment longer, his hand held out like there was no question Sam was going to give in. Sam shook his head.

“Christ.” Dean turned and stalked off toward the bathroom.

Sam sighed and pulled his phone out. He looked at it, and then looked after Dean’s retreating figure. He hit number two on his speed dial and listened to it ring, one eye on the side of the building, where the grimy door to the bathroom was half-hidden behind a stack of old tires.

"Hey, Sam. Did you get a chance to look at that book I sent you?"

“Hey, Bobby. No, not yet. We haven't been by the PO box in a while. Dean's been -" Sam broke off. Dean had been kind of stomping his way around the South, keeping Sam away from their usual mail drops. Bobby snorted as if he knew exactly what Sam had to deal with. "We’re on our way to Florida. Just letting you know.”

"Florida? What the hell're you doing, going back to that bitch of a state?" Bobby sounded appalled and distracted at the same time. Sam guessed he was either cooking something or trying to bring some order to the piles of books that sometimes threatened to overtake his house.

Sam shrugged. "Dean found a job down there. He doesn't know everything that happened, Bobby. He doesn't know about Wednesday." It felt like someone had Sam's chest in a tight fist, like it always did when he even thought the word _Wednesday._ Sam had told Bobby about Wednesday in a moment of weakness when they talked just two days ago, and he wished he hadn’t. He cleared his throat and changed the subject. "Any sign of Bela?" He already knew the answer. Bobby would have called if he had anything, but Sam just needed to stop talking about Florida and Wednesday.

"Nah, haven't heard a thing. She's gone to ground, alright. Listen, you boys be careful. And I know I said you won't find a way to save Dean by lookin' in a book, but this one could be the one." Bobby sighed. "Aw, hell, kid, I don't know. But it's worth givin' it a look."

Sam felt a rush of frustration that Dean's stubbornness was keeping him from something that might help him find a way out of the damn deal. "Okay, Bobby. I'll try. Maybe I’ll just knock him on the head and stuff him in the trunk while I go get it.” Bobby snorted. “Thanks." Sam thumbed the phone off.

He climbed into the car, sitting in the driver’s seat and rolling his head from side to side, trying to work out some of the tension in his neck. His jaw was tight with the anger that never left him and he took a deep breath in through his nose and let it slowly out through his mouth. He had a flash of Jess telling him to center himself, heard her voice from what seemed like a very long time ago in his ear, telling him how to breathe.

The second year he was at Stanford, he’d spent the entire day of Dean’s birthday with his phone in his hand, trying not to push _send._ Jess had shown him how to relax using what she called _cleansing breaths_ , and to his surprise, it worked.

She had finally pried the phone out of his loosened fingers and kissed him softly on the cheek before she'd marched him off to bed. Her sweet mouth and talented hands had taken his mind off Dean. If her hands were smaller and softer than what he’d wanted, they still worked to soothe him and he'd fallen asleep with his head on her breast. In the morning, all he felt was guilt, but he wasn’t sure for what, exactly.

He had truly loved her to the best of his ability.

And now he sat behind the wheel of Dean’s car and focused on the air moving in and out of his lungs, closing his eyes and letting himself think about Jess’s face, her soft skin and joyful laugh. He’d been happy then, he knew that, even if he couldn’t remember how it felt.

Dean came out of the bathroom wiping his hands on his jeans, palms rubbing up and down his legs, and Sam made sure to look away from the way the muscles of Dean's thighs flexed as he walked. Dean got into the passenger side of the car, slammed the door closed, jammed a pair of sunglasses on his face and slid down in the seat, resting his head on the seat back without a word.

Great.

Sam pulled out of the gas station onto the main drag of whatever the hell little hollow in Tennessee they were passing through, the engine roaring and the tires squealing in protest. Dean’s hands clenched into fists where they rested on his thighs, but he kept his mouth shut.

While Sam drove, Dean dozed. It was fitful but at least he was sleeping and Sam counted that as a win. As they crossed over into Georgia several hours later, he glanced at his watch and decided to keep driving. He wasn’t tired and he didn’t want to wake Dean up.

He didn’t know which was a worse reproach, Dean awake beside him, thrumming with hopeless anger, or Dean sleeping beside him, dreaming of hell.

 

  


>/p>

 _Mary came to Sam often when he was at Stanford. He dreamed about her when he and Jess first got together. Sam had already decided that Jess was the one. She was his whole future,_ safe _just ready and waiting for him._

 _Mary smiled at Sam and said, “I like her, Sam. She’s a good girl and she won’t be afraid when the time comes.”_

 _Sam didn’t know what was coming that would make Jess afraid, and the way his mother smiled made him not want to ask._

 

When Dean finally woke up, he demanded that they find someplace to eat. His eyes were bloodshot and he didn’t look like he’d slept at all.

Sam had eaten enough diner food in his life that he really thought he might have developed an allergy to meatloaf. He thought maybe his fate had been sealed on that issue the day John Winchester decided that living life on the road was the way to go. Sam honestly didn't care that much about food, probably because he didn't really know good food from bad, but the monotony got to him sometimes.

Actually, he did know about bad food. It was usually whatever his brother liked to eat.

Sam managed to find somewhere that at least had fried chicken on the menu and they ate in almost companionable silence. Companionable if Sam ignored the studied blankness of Dean's face or the way he avoided meeting Sam's eyes. Sam sighed. Sometimes his brother showed all the maturity of a five-year old.

"I figure we've got about six hours to go," Sam said, instead of what he really wanted to say, which was to ask Dean how much longer he was planning on pouting. No sense in making things worse.

Sam’s fried chicken was actually really good. He eyed the two lethal-looking Hush Puppies on his plate. "You could kill someone with one of these things if your aim was good enough," he said, waving at them with his fork. He didn't understand Hush Puppies, he never had. Whenever they'd spent time in the South when they were young, John had always bitched about Sam wasting food when he refused to eat them, but Sam was damned if he'd try to swallow those hard balls of fried dough. As far as Sam was concerned, they were just there to take up space on his plate.

Dean grunted around a mouthful of mashed potatoes and gravy. His expression softened and Sam figured he was remembering, too. "It used to drive Dad crazy when you refused to eat 'em," he said. His voice held the usual note of sadness it contained whenever he talked about Dad. He seemed to realize, and cleared his throat before shoveling another forkful of potatoes into his mouth.

They ate the rest of the meal in the strained silence that made Sam thrum with a low-level tension at the time that was slipping away from them. Only a few months left and Dean was choosing to waste it arguing. Christ.

Sam finally broke. “So how much longer are you going to pout?”

Dean didn’t answer him, just held his hand out for the car keys, and after a moment's hesitation, during which Dean's eyes narrowed dangerously, Sam handed them over. Dean threw a few bills on the table and headed out of the diner. Their waitress had done her best to engage Dean's attention, but nothing she'd done - and she'd done a lot - even seemed to register.

Sam, on the other hand, had liked the way her tits tried their damnedest to spill out over the neckline of her uniform when she clattered their plates onto the table, and he liked the way her skirt hiked up when she bent to give them an eyeful as she cleared off the table opposite them. He watched her hips sway as she walked back to the kitchen and felt an idle flicker of arousal.

But it wasn't compelling enough to do anything about, and it wouldn’t distract him the way he needed to be distracted. And Dean was just perverse enough that it would piss him off even more.

Sam followed Dean out of the diner.

Dean slid behind the wheel of the car with the air of someone being reunited with his long-lost lover. What he was doing to the steering wheel could only be described as a caress, and he glared at Sam as if Sam had kept him separated from the love of his life by insisting that Dean get some sleep earlier, instead of letting him risk driving his baby off the side of the road.

Sam didn’t know the last time Dean had hooked up with an actual woman, now that he thought about it, which was just weird. It was also weird that the way his brother interacted with his car made Sam think of sex. But Dean hadn’t had much energy for women before the Trickster’s detour, if Sam’s memory served. The manic _joie de vivre_ he’d shown for the first few months after he made his deal had dissipated as time started running out and the reality of his situation penetrated his thick skull.

Sam tried and failed to feel bad about that.

They arrived in Sarasota around midnight. Sam hadn’t really liked Florida all that much before Broward County, but now he downright hated it. No matter how many times he reiterated that, it wasn’t enough to fully convey the depth of his loathing. The weather was evil; hot and humid, and nothing good ever happened here. It was a fucked up place, full of people who all came from somewhere else.

Sarasota, at least the part on the water, was just like every other town or city along the Gulf coast, full of retirees and tourists. High-rise condos stood on the beach alongside small, crappy motels and run-down cottages dating from the 1950s, and the streets were lined with seafood restaurants and shops full of bathing suits and souvenirs made out of seashells.

The parking lots all showed _No Vacancy_ signs, but Dean finally found them a cheap room in a motel that was actually a series of small cottages with an all-pervasive dolphin theme. Dolphins leapt across the wallpaper, swam through the bathroom tiles and dangled from the ceiling, reflecting in the mirrors. The place was close enough to the beach that there was sand everywhere, little grains that would be trapped in the perpetually damp carpet for all eternity. Nothing ever seemed to completely dry out in Florida.

Sam hated it.

Dean seemed slightly less angry as he slung his duffle onto the bed closest to the door and headed for the bathroom. There was weariness in the set of his shoulders and fatigue in his gait, but the tenseness of his anger was mostly gone.

Sam stripped to his boxers, dropped down onto the other bed and closed his eyes. He could brush his teeth in the morning.

 

 _The first time Dean showed Sammy a picture of their mom, Sam already knew what she looked like. He didn’t tell Dean that, though. Sometimes Dean would tell Sammy stories about their mom, whispering to him late at night when Sammy couldn’t sleep._

 _Dean talked about her hair and her soft hands and her pretty voice. He didn’t remember much, but that was okay. Sammy liked to listen to the same stories over again, lying quiet in the dark, huddled together in whatever bed they were sleeping in, wherever they were._

 _And anyway, he knew stories that Dean didn’t know. Stories that his mother told him when he was asleep. She’d stroke his hair and tell him about the stars, or the animals in the forest and the creatures in the ocean. He didn’t tell Dean any of those stories._

 _He wanted to keep them for himself._

 

The next morning they made their way across a sandy street crowded with tourists, towards a small restaurant with a hand-lettered sign proclaiming the _World's Best Coffee_ taped to the front door. Dean brightened perceptively.

"Move your ass, Sam."

Once inside, they made their way to a table situated between two large families. To Sam's left, a group of painfully pale children chattered away in undeniable British accents. "Mummy," the oldest one piped. "May I have an egg and toast, please?"

The mother, a pretty woman with light brown hair, nodded distractedly at her daughter, while filling one of those cups that had spouts on them with orange juice. She offered it to a small blond-haired toddler sitting in a booster seat next to her. He batted it away with a loud NO and his sister giggled as it went skidding across the table. It hit the floor and the lid flew off. Orange juice splattered everywhere, including the left leg of Sam's jeans.

The father, a tall, lanky guy wearing wire-rimmed glasses, looked at his wife with irritation on his face, his lips tightening in displeasure. "Miriam, can't you keep him under control?" he snapped. His wife closed her eyes wearily for a brief moment, and Sam could see her exhaustion in the droop of her shoulders.

Dean made an unidentifiable noise and Sam glanced at him, startled at the unexpected sound. His brother was looking at the spilled orange juice with a smile. He shook his head and grabbed a wad of napkins, scooting his chair back and getting to his feet.

Dean bent to swipe the napkins through the puddle on the floor, and then picked up the cup. He straightened and set the cup firmly on the table in front of the father with a glare, turning to give the mother a soft smile of sympathy. It was the kind of smile Sam hadn't seen on Dean's face in a long time.

He sank back down into his seat and grinned at Sam, who was staring at him with bemusement. "Dude, you used to do that all the time. Threw your sippy cup across the room anytime it didn't have apple juice in it." Sam let him smirk for a minute while his brain processed the fact that Dean had used the words _sippy cup_ in a sentence. Then he smirked back.

"What?"

"Sippy cup?"

"Well, that's what they're called. Don't be a dick." Dean eyed Sam with censure. "Whose job do you think it was to make sure your precious-ass sippy cup was never empty? You were a real bitch about it, too. Treated me like a freakin’ waitress, Sammy."

Sam hastily decided to change the subject before Dean could get started on all the ways Sam had been a bitchy princess when he was little. It was a subject he could wax eloquent on for hours if Sam let him.

Then Sam tilted his head and looked at Dean, reconsidering. Maybe he should let Dean run with it. It would give him something else to think about, maybe calm him down a little, make him less angry.

But it was too late. Dean had disappeared behind his menu and the way his fingers tightened on it when Sam tentatively cleared his throat told him that Dean had remembered he was still pissed at his brother. Sam clenched his jaw in renewed frustration.

Dean was all smiles for their waitress, turning on the charm, which she responded to with a pretty pink blush and a toss of her hair. Sam didn't quite glower at her when he told her he wanted pancakes, but it was a near thing. Her blush faded and she tossed her hair in a very different way when she turned away from the table with their orders.

Sam half expected Dean to bitch him out about ruining their chances for frequent and attentive coffee refills, but he didn't. He was watching the people at the table on the right side of them, his eyes narrowed in a way Sam couldn't quite interpret.

There were three kids, all dressed in bathing suits, talking excitedly about going to the beach. The youngest one was wearing some kind of flotation device around his waist, a green swimming tube with a smiling dragon's head sticking out in front.

The parents were engrossed in their own conversation, but still paying attention to the kids, the kind of parental multi-tasking that Sam was in awe of whenever he saw it, and that Dean had almost always been able to pull off when they were growing up.

The mother had long blonde hair and she smiled sweetly at her son's excitement. There was something about it that made Sam’s throat ache.

 

 _It had been a bad day and Sammy was tired. There was a Christmas play at school tonight, and he had been looking forward to it for weeks. His class was going to sing_ Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer _and_ Frosty the Snowman _and there was going to be punch and cookies in the school cafeteria after the show. Everyone was supposed to bring cookies, and the auditorium was decorated with a big tree, twinkling with white lights and big red and gold balls. Dean had made cookies the night before in the small kitchen of the tiny apartment they lived in, and he let Sam help decorate them with red sprinkles._

 _And then this morning Dad said they had to leave and for Dean to help Sammy pack his things. Sammy tried not to cry, but he didn't want to miss the Christmas party. Dad told him he would be going to school where they were moving to, but Sammy worried they wouldn't have a second grade at the new school. He didn't know what kind of things a new school would have, but he knew they wouldn't have a Christmas play by the time he got there._

 _He yelled at Dean when Dad was outside packing the car. He shouted that he hated Dad and hated Dean and he didn't want to move again. Dean looked sad when Sammy said he hated him, but he just kept packing Sam's stuff and didn't yell back._

 _And now it was dark and they were in the car, still, because Dad didn't want to stop at a motel yet, and Sammy was curled up in the back seat, dozing to the sound of Dad's music. It was playing quieter than usual, and Sammy knew that meant Dean was asleep in the front seat. He had turned around to tell Sammy goodnight, but Sam ignored him, looked away out the window into the dark night and passing headlights, and pinched his lips shut tight._

 _"Sammy," his mother’s voice said. "Sammy, my poor baby. This isn't what I wanted for you. I'm sorry, Sammy." His mother looked sad, and her eyes were just like Dean's. "Dean loves you, Sammy."_

 _It was just starting to get light when Dad finally pulled into a motel and carried a half-asleep Sammy inside. He laid him gently down on the bed, and Dean pulled the covers back and scooted in next to him. Sam stirred restlessly, not wanting to wake up all the way. "Shh, Sammy," Dean whispered. "It's okay, go back to sleep."_

 _"G'night, Dean," Sammy murmured._

 

February was apparently when all the tourists came to Florida. Sam had never seen so many Michigan license plates in his life, at least not outside of the actual state of Michigan. He could certainly understand the urge for a Michigan winter exodus. And after the Christmas he and Dean just spent there, he definitely didn’t think he’d be going back again any time soon.

It had been both the best and the worst Christmas of Sam's life. He tore his mind away from the memory of Dean's face, lit with the colored lights Sam had strung around the room, looking happy and content just to be with his brother on Christmas. Giving Dean Christmas was one of the hardest things Sam had ever done until the Trickster decided he was bored.

As pissed as Dean seemed to be with him still, again, whatever - and really, how fucked up was that and how much longer was it going to go on? - he was obviously ready to get on with the job by the time he'd wiped the last of the maple syrup off his plate with his finger. He then proceeded to suck said finger into his mouth, licking the syrup off with a flourish. Sam made himself look away.

"Let's go," Dean said, shoving his chair back from the table and standing up. The family on the right was also getting ready to leave.

The British folks had already left, the father stalking out ahead of his family, leaving his wife to gather the children and all their child-related crap. She'd given Dean a tremulous smile as she balanced her son on one hip and a huge bag of stuff on the other, trying to herd her daughter out in front of her. Dean made a move as if to get up and help her, but she'd shaken her head quickly, with a nervous glance at her retreating husband's back. Dean subsided into his seat with a shrug and a frown.

Now Sam and Dean made it safely out the door, dodging the little boy and his swimming tube as his mother laughed joyfully while she watched him trot towards the door, the dragon's head clutched in his chubby little hands. Dean’s face softened and Sam felt his chest tighten.

When they got back across the street to their room, they changed into their Federal agent outfits to go interview the guy who'd killed his wife because he loved her too much, whatever the fuck that meant. Sam frowned at the spot of mud on his pant leg and hoped that his suit coat hid the worst of the wrinkles in his shirt. Living out of the trunk of the car didn’t do much for keeping their wardrobe neat and tidy.

Tightening his tie in the dolphin-shaped mirror that hung over a dresser painted to look like ocean waves, Sam decided to try and make peace again. He'd let this go on for longer than he should have.

"Dean," he started.

"Forget it, Sam," Dean said from behind him, shrugging his suit coat on over his shoulders and meeting Sam's eyes in the mirror. "It's fine."

"Obviously it's not fine, Dean," Sam said impatiently, turning to face his brother.

"It's as fine as it's gonna get, then." Dean glared at him. "Just drop it."

"I'm not gonna -"

“Dammit, Sam,” Dean snapped, and Sam actually took a step back at the anger he saw on Dean's face. "Yes, you are. I mean it, Sam. Quit beating a dead horse." Dean snatched his car keys, wallet, and FBI ID off the dresser, shoved them in his pocket and stalked to the door. "Come on!"

Sam took a deep breath to steady himself and keep from kicking his brother's ass right then and there, and followed Dean out into the blinding Florida sunshine.

The FBI badges worked their usual weird magic and got them in for an interview with Jack Harrison. He was one sorry-looking son of a bitch, weary and pale. His eyes were flat and lifeless, his skin was gray, and his hair was dull and limp. The orange prison jumpsuit didn't help, making him look like he’d been embalmed. Orange didn't even look good on Dean, Sam thought, as he studied Harrison closely, and Dean looked good in everything.

"You wanna tell us what happened?" Dean started. He'd picked a Golden Oldie for their badges this time. He flashed them at the guy, who couldn't have looked less interested. "Agents Jagger and Richards. Tell us what happened to your wife."

Harrison seemed to be shaken somewhat out of his apathy by Dean's directness. He stared at them from across the table, then licked his lips and said, "She was a saint." He lowered his eyes and said nothing else.

"That's it? She was a saint?" Dean's belligerence was obvious. "And that's why you killed her?" He shook his head. "Okay, pal. We're gonna need a little more than that." He turned his glare on Sam as Sam kicked him under the table. "What?"

"What Agent Richards means is, why don't you tell us what happened that night?" Sam said, trying to sound calm and encouraging. Dean snorted.

Harrison looked back and forth between them, sighing and twisting his hands together on the table in front of him. "We were married for seven years. We have two children. Melissa was perfect. She was the most wonderful mother in the world. She was the best wife a man could ask for. We were very happy." He sounded almost mechanical, and Sam frowned. "I don't know what else you want me to say. I loved her more than I should have."

Sam had no clue what that meant, but Dean merely said, "Listen, just tell us what happened." Harrison didn't say anything, just stared down at his hands.

Sam put on his best sympathetic face and said, "Mr. Harrison. How did you love your wife too much? Can you tell us what you mean by that?"

Harrison's knuckles were white as his fingers wrapped together even tighter. "She was perfect," he whispered. "And I wanted her to stay perfect." He looked pleadingly back and forth between Sam and Dean. "She wouldn't have if she'd lived. Eventually, things would have gotten to her, made her do bad things. It’s hard, being a mother. That’s what the girl said."

“What girl?” Dean asked. Sam blinked. This was the first mention of any girl.

“The girl with the long dark hair. She said the amulet wouldn’t help.” Harrison looked past them like they were no longer there.

And that was all they were able to get out of him.

“Guy’s a dick,” Dean said as they walked out of the county building. “What the hell are his kids supposed to do now? And who’s this girl he’s talking about?”

Sam didn’t have an answer for either question.

They screwed around town for a while after that, checking a few facts at the library and the local newspaper office. Dinner was fried shrimp at the seafood shack down the street from the Dolphin Inn. Sam could feel his arteries clog up, but he had to admit it was pretty good.

The place was full of tourists and that made Dean antsy.

“I feel like I’m stuck on the friggin' Love Boat,” he grumbled. “What’s with all the men in shorts?”

He seemed to have softened a little and when they got back to their room, Sam got reckless and tried again. He’d been so long without and there was so little time left, and dammit, didn’t he deserve to have as much of Dean as he could, while he was still alive?

So he took a risk and Dean said no.

And Sam pretty much lost it.

“I watched you die, over and over and over again, Dean,” Sam shouted with baffled fury.

“And so, what, you think I _owe_ you sex?” Dean cocked his head and looked at Sam curiously. “No means no, Sam, and even if I’m not the chick in this relationship, I still get to say it.”

“What are you afraid of, Dean? I don’t understand.” Sam was pleading now and he didn't care. There was so little time left. How could Dean not _see_ that.

“I’m not afraid of anything, Sam.” Dean disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Sam heard the sound of running water, heard the toilet flush, heard Dean gargle and spit into the sink. All sounds that he thought he’d never hear again.

All sounds that in a few short months he really never would hear again if he didn’t find a way to do something about it.

And now he’d gone and fucked things up again. He knew better than to push. He felt his stomach do a slow flip and he clenched his teeth against hopeless love and frustration.

When Dean came out of the bathroom, Sam was still standing there in the middle of the room, lost in misery. He flinched when Dean laid a hand on his arm.

“It’s not fair, Sam. That’s all. It’s not fair, and it’ll just make it harder for me to go.” He took his hand away and crawled into bed, turning on his side, his back to Sam.

Sam’s arm burned where Dean’s hand had touched him.

 

 _It took Sam until Cold Oak before he had any idea why his mother told him she was sorry when she came to him in his dreams. He still didn't understand why Azazel feeding him demon blood was his mother's fault, and Ruby's cryptic instructions to check out Mary's friends and family hadn’t provided any answers, except that they were all dead. There must be more to it, but in the dreams, although Mary always spoke to him, Sam could never seem to ask her. He tried, but the words wouldn't come, and his mother just shook her head at him._

 _But the days after Cold Oak - well, Sam was mostly confused about that time. He'd been dead. That he knew. And then Dean, that stubborn bastard, had gone and made his stupid, self-sacrificing deal with the crossroads demon, which Sam still wanted to kick his ass for. Sam had been dead but he didn't go anywhere. Or, if he did, he didn't know where. If there had been a reaper, if his spirit, or whatever, went into any kind of light, Sam didn't remember it._

 _The only thing he remembered from that time was his mother. She'd been there with him, wherever he was, and sometimes she talked to him, but mostly she was silent. It seemed to Sam that she was grieving; he heard her voice rise with it. She appeared to be waiting for something. Her head tilted, listening, but he didn't know what she was listening for. He was floating and lost, adrift in darkness. He saw flashes, he supposed they were memories, of Ava's smiling face and the fear in Andy's eyes. Jake, he saw how terrified Jake was, and how strong that made him. The yellow-eyed demon had been there, Azazel, telling him things he didn't want to know, things about blood, and his mother._

 _And then his mother screamed and Sam didn't know if it was with rage or joy. He heard a name he didn't understand,_ Castiel, _screamed in his mother's agony, and then right before Sam woke up, Mary said to him soothingly, "It's fine, Sam. They’ll watch over him."_

 _He had no idea what she meant._

 

When Sam woke in the morning, Dean was gone. Sam hoped like hell he was only out getting breakfast and not anything else. Panic fluttered in his belly at the sight of Dean’s empty bed, but the rumpled sheets at least gave him relief in the knowledge that Dean had been there.

During all those months without Dean, those months that weren’t real for anyone except Sam, he hadn’t been able to stay in a room with two beds. After the first time he’d tried it, the sight of the empty bed next to him, immaculate and untouched, sent Sam to the bathroom and kept him in there until morning, hunched over the toilet. On his knees on the cold tile floor, he’d known such despair that he wasn’t sure if he could survive it.

On the rare occasions a motel didn’t have a room with a single bed available, Sam had slept in Dean’s car. That brought its own kind of agony. The car was all he had left of his brother and it made him hurt beyond measure.

He shook his hair out of his eyes and the memories out of his mind, swung his legs over the edge of the bed and headed for the shower.

When he emerged from the steaming bathroom, towel knotted around his waist, Ruby was standing in front of the small table in the kitchenette, leafing idly through the piles of notes from this case.

She turned at his entrance and stared appreciatively at his bare torso, eyes straying to the front of his towel. Dropping the papers back on the table, she folded her arms across her chest. She whistled.

“Impressive, Sam. You really shouldn’t hide behind all those shirts, you know.” She nodded at his chest with a smirk.

“What do you want, Ruby? Sam moved self-consciously to where his duffle was parked on the dresser. Having a demon perv on him was beyond disturbing. Shoving a carved wooden dolphin out of his way, he began to rummage through his bag for some clean underwear.

“Don’t get dressed on my account, Sam.” Her voice was amused and it got under his skin.

He turned to glare at her. “What do you want, Ruby?”

“Okay, okay.” She cocked her head and looked at him with speculation. “What’s wrong, Sam? You seem a little…off. Did something happen I don’t know about? You’re not keeping secrets from me, are you?”

There was no way Sam was going to tell Ruby about Broward County and the Trickster. “What do you want?” he repeated for the third damn time, jaw clenched tight. He grabbed some boxers and a pair of jeans and went back into the bathroom. From behind the partially closed door, he heard Ruby shuffling through his notes again. He dressed hastily and returned to the room. “Leave those alone.”

“Sorry,” Ruby said, not looking sorry at all. She put the notes down. “This case is so not important, Sam. What are you even doing here besides wasting time?”

“Every case is important, Ruby,” Sam said, although he actually agreed with her. This case and these people were nothing compared to Dean, but he was here because Dean wanted to be.

“Right. Well, then, I’ll let you get back to it. When you’re ready to save Dean from his deal, Sam, you be sure and let me know.” She turned to the door.

“Ruby, wait. Did you come here for a reason? Do you have something for me?” He wondered if she was lying when she insisted that she didn’t know the name of the demon that held Dean’s contract. He wondered if he could make her talk.

“No. I came to see why you were wasting your time on a ghost with mommy issues instead of trying to help Dean.” She shrugged, looking unruffled for all her professed concern. “Time’s running out, Sam. You don’t have forever to do this.”

Sam advanced on her, frustration burning through him. “Tell me what to do, then! How am I supposed to help him?” He stood over her, fists clenched at his sides. He wanted to hurt her.

She cocked her head again, her long blonde hair falling around her face with the motion. “No, you go right ahead and stay here with Dean and finish up this case. I’ll be waiting for you when you’re ready to be serious about this. Maybe I’ll even have that naming ritual for you. Just don’t take too long, Sam.”

She turned and was gone, leaving Sam shaking with urgent fury.

Ghost with mommy issues? What the hell did that mean?

Five minutes later, Dean came back through the door, carrying coffee and a bag of Dunkin’ Donuts.

“What’s up, Sammy? Why’re you standing around half-nekkid? You thinkin’ about trying out to be a Chippendale dancer?” His voice teased, but Sam could hear something under the smile. Something warm and dark and he watched Dean look at him, watched his eyes travel over his chest as if helpless to look away.

Sam turned back to his duffle, grabbed a t-shirt and pulled it over his head. He’d had enough rejection last night and he wasn’t about to risk giving Dean a chance to do it again.

But the look in Dean’s eyes as he watched Sam tug his shirt into place made him hope, just a little, that things weren’t as fucked-up between them as he’d thought.

 

 _At first, Sam didn't think he slept during the months the Trickster kept him dangling on the cusp of Tuesday. Dean died, and Sam woke up. And it wasn't as if he and Dean took naps during the day while Sam was waiting for Dean to die._

 _But he knew he saw his mother's face, knew she came to him somehow, sometime. It was the saddest he had ever seen her look, and she never said anything directly to him. She barely even looked at him. "Dean," she would say, mournfully. "Dean."_

 _And Sam knew what that was like, he said it himself, every time Dean died. When Dean fell in the shower, when he ate bad tacos, when the ax in Sam's hand slipped and buried itself in - Sam shouted Dean's name, he screamed it, he whispered it with hot bitter tears on his face. So he understood it when all Mary could manage was her beloved son's name._

 

"Look at this, Dean." Sam picked up the small statue of a scorpion that sat on an undersized dresser. The dresser looked suspiciously like some sort of altar to Sam. There was an ornate bowl with carvings of birds covering the sides, filled with soil, dark and rich. A green candle sat in the center, surrounded by some kind of grass clippings. Sam turned the scorpion over in his hands. What appeared to be dried blood stained the bottom, brown and rust-like.

"What the hell is that?" Dean said. "Dude, that's gross." He looked around the room, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. "We're not dealing with friggin’ witches again, are we?"

“I don’t know what this is,” Sam said. He looked around the Harrisons’ bedroom. The yellow crime scene tape curled despondently across the floor, no longer keeping anyone out. Nothing was out of place as far as Sam could tell. The room was freakishly neat, really.

Small pink roses festooned the wallpaper and there were matching curtains at the two windows. The furniture was small and almost delicate, white wood with ornately carved knobs on the dresser drawers. It was a very feminine room, not really a typical master bedroom. There was a large bloodstain on the bed, and Sam paused, tilted his head to the side and studied it curiously.

“Dean, does this look like some kind of pattern to you?” he asked.

Dean was looking under the furniture, presumably for hex bags. He stopped and glanced at the mattress. “Well, Sam it looks like someone got gutted –" he stopped. “Huh. It looks almost symmetrical.” He grabbed a pencil and a piece of paper from the pile of neat, flowered stationary on the small desk in the corner of the room.

He studied the blood on the mattress, and then, sketching quickly, duplicated the pattern on the paper, folding it up and tucking it in his pocket. “I don’t see any hex bags. We done here? This place gives me the creeps, all these flowers. I feel like I’m at a funeral.”

“Yeah, we’re done.” Sam palmed the scorpion statue, feeling the heft of it in his hand, and said, “Let’s go.”

He had to physically stop himself from grabbing Dean’s arm as they started to walk across the street where they’d parked the car. There was very little traffic in the Harrisons’ neighborhood this time of day, sleepy mid-afternoon, but that didn’t mean anything. Sam was conditioned to things happening to his brother suddenly and without warning under the most innocuous circumstances.

“Florida’s a weird-ass place, Sammy,” Dean was saying. He gestured to the verdant foliage, the green trees with fruit hanging heavy from every branch. “You can just go outside any time you feel like you wanna eat an orange and grab one.” Every front yard had the same thing, an orange tree next to the driveway and a grapefruit tree up by the house. “That’s not natural.”

They were in an older neighborhood, made up of small pastel-colored ranch houses with bas-relief dolphins or seahorses on the front walls next to large picture windows. There was vegetation everywhere, dank and green, with lurid pink and red flowers and insects buzzing indolently in the bright sun.

Sam spotted a face peering out the front window of the house next door to the Harrisons’. It was a pale aqua house with spiky plants around the front door and a beat up Jeep Cherokee seeking refuge from the Florida sun under a carport roof.

He nudged Dean. “Let’s see what the neighbors think.”

The neighbor was a young woman in her twenties, with dark brown hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and a pretty little girl who looked to be around two clinging to her leg. The woman stood warily in the doorway, propping the screen door open with her hip.

“Sure, I knew Melissa. Our kids played together.” She shrugged. “We were friends.”

Dean’s face lit up with the same expression it always did when he was around kids. The little girl peered at him solemnly from behind her mother’s knee, thumb stuck in her mouth, bare toes curling into the carpet.

“Hi there, sweetheart,” Dean said, beaming down at her. She stopped sucking her thumb and watched him with curious eyes.

“Can you tell us what the Harrison’s marriage was like, um, Mrs…?” Sam asked.

“Jackson. Kathy Jackson.” She was playing idly with a small silver charm that she wore on a chain around her neck. “Who are you again?” Sam wasn’t sure she really cared. She seemed more focused on Dean and the gentle faces he was making at her daughter, who now had her thumb out of her mouth and was blinking up at Dean, her lips curved in an almost-smile.

“FBI,” Dean interjected glibly, looking up at Kathy. “Agents Jagger and Richards.” She nodded.

“They seemed happy enough. Melissa never complained. Jack worked a lot, but they all did stuff together on the weekends. You know, they went to the beach, things like that. Played with the kids.”

“That’s a lovely necklace, Kathy,” Dean said suddenly. “May I?” He reached out a hand, but Kathy shrank back against the doorframe.

“No! I mean, I’m sorry, it was a present from my mother and I don’t like -” Her daughter seemed to pick up on the change in her mood and started to fuss, raising her arms to her mother and whimpering. Kathy bent to pick her up, depositing her effortlessly on her hip in that competent way some women had of making Sam feel lucky he’d probably never have kids. It was so far out of his proficiency range it was ridiculous.

“Sorry,” Dean said.

“It’s fine. Did you talk to the girl? She might know something,” Kathy said, looking at Sam.

“What girl?”

“The one with the long dark hair. I’ve seen her hanging around the neighborhood sometimes.” Kathy looked thoughtful. “Melissa mentioned seeing her a couple of times.”

“No,” Sam said smoothly. “We haven’t talked to her yet.”

“We’ll get out of your hair now,” Dean added. He handed her an official-looking card with his cell phone number on it. “Here’s my number if you think of anything else. Thank you for your time.” He winked at the little girl and they turned to go.

“Melissa was a good mother,” Kathy Jackson said to their retreating backs. It sounded almost aggressive. That was weird. As far as Sam knew, no one had said she wasn’t.

 

They fought the tourist traffic back to their little beach cottage motel, stopping to pick up beer along the way. Once there, they ordered pizza.

"We're not getting those freaky-ass green things on it, Sam. Forget it."

"They're green peppers, Dean." Sam always got green peppers on his pizza.

"I don't care what they are. They're not touching my pizza."

"Just try them, Dean. They're not going to kill you." Sam stopped, stricken. Dean had been killed by tacos, sausage, an apple, beer, and Thousand Island salad dressing. There was really no reason to think he was safe from green peppers.

"You all right? Sam? Hey!" Dean looked worried and Sam mentally shook himself.

"I'm fine. Order what you want."

He went into the bathroom to take a piss and to tell himself to get a grip. He heard Dean on the phone, ordering a large pizza with pepperoni, mushrooms and green peppers.

While they waited for the pizza to arrive, Sam fired up his laptop and Dean paged through their father’s journal.

“Kathy Jackson’s necklace is the same design as the pattern of blood on the Harrison’s mattress,” Sam said.

“Yes, thank you, I did notice that, Sammy,” Dean said, rolling his eyes. “But I don’t see it anywhere in Dad’s journal."

Sam didn’t know if it was having details of a case to work on or the pizza and beer, but Dean seemed to have almost forgotten to be pissed at Sam. Sam didn’t trust it to last, but he was grateful nonetheless. Dean was a champion at compartmentalizing. No matter how mad he got, no matter what they were arguing about, he never let that get in the way of the job at hand.

Which was a very good thing, because there was no way Sam was going to stop trying to figure out how to get Dean out of his deal, no matter how pissy Dean got about it. _Because I’m the oldest and I say so_ just wasn’t going to cut it anymore as a valid argument, no matter how much Dean insisted it was. So one of them needed to be able to keep focused on the job. Sam was having a hard time giving a crap, although he resolutely sat and tapped away on his laptop until he found something.

“I think I figured out the symbol,” Sam said slowly, clicking on a link and opening another window. “I think it has something to do with Isis.”

“Who-sis?” Dean said, squinting. He waved a hand when Sam started to answer. “Dude, I know who Isis is. Some Egyptian chick, right?”

Sam nodded, smiling. “Fertility goddess. Motherhood and power. And get this, one of her animal icons is a scorpion.”

“Wait, do scorpions make good mothers?” Dean asked, raising his eyebrows.

“I have no idea, Dean.” Sam tapped his computer screen. “The blood pattern, and that charm Kathy Jackson was wearing, it’s Egyptian. It’s a hieroglyph. Or, like, a symbol of one. I think it means mother.” He studied the picture on his laptop. “I should give Bobby a call.”

“You go ahead and call Bobby, I’m gonna go out for a while.” Dean didn’t look at Sam as he stood up and stretched, his back popping as he sighed, a look of pure bliss on his face. It was quickly replaced by a flat, expressionless look and his eyes were shuttered when he glanced at Sam. “I’ll be back later.”

“What?” Sam asked, startled at Dean’s sudden change of mood.

“I just need some air, is all,” Dean said. “You’ve been on me like white on rice, Sam, ever since the Trickster. I just need a little fresh air for a while.”

Hurt caused heat to rise in Sam's face at Dean’s words, but he tightened his lips to keep the angry retort behind his tongue. He could maintain the peace. He could.

Dean stood there a moment, as if waiting for Sam to react. When Sam managed not to, Dean snatched his jacket off the bed and shrugged it on, tugging the sleeves jerkily into place. He was at the door when Sam finally spoke.

“I’m not six years old anymore, Dean.” Sam didn’t know if he meant _stop telling me what to do_ or _I don’t need you to protect me._ Probably a little of both. Neither was something his brother had ever been able to hear easily.

Dean’s hand tightened on the doorknob for a second, then his shoulders slumped and he muttered, “I know,” as he pulled the door open and walked through it.

Sam looked at the papers spread around his bed, Dad’s journal opened to an entry on Egyptian deities, and his laptop blinking ISIS: GODDESS OF FERTILITY at him. He slammed the laptop closed and swept the papers off the bed in a rage.

Who cared about this shit anyway? How was any of this going to help him save Dean?

 _Dean_ cared about it. Sam knew Dean, knew that caring about saving random people, killing random monsters, was the only way he was maintaining any kind of equilibrium at this point. It was the only distraction he had and had always been his big purpose in life. That was pretty much the only reason Sam was willing to spend time on jobs instead of devoting all his energies to finding a way to save his brother.

Sex wasn’t even distracting Dean anymore. The first few months after killing Azazel had been a virtual orgy of frenzied coupling, Dean nailing anything and anybody that would stand still long enough. Sam had looked the other way, even though he’d wanted to shake Dean. It wasn't like he had much of a choice.

But Dean _did_ have a choice, and he _knew_ he did.

He knew what Sam had on offer. Sam had placed it out there for Dean to do with as he saw fit, plain and simple, a long time ago. He had let Dean know in no uncertain terms what he wanted, what Dean could have, and Dean had said no, just as clearly. Even on the rare occasions when he said yes, he still meant no.

And now Dean was too terrified by what was coming to take refuge in meaningless sex, but he was too stubborn, too afraid, to take what Sam was offering, except under the most extreme circumstances. He tried to hide his dread and fear of what was happening to him from Sam, but Sam knew him better than anyone else in the world. He’d spent a lifetime studying Dean, and there was very little Dean could hide from him, although he still kept trying.

It was almost endearing, when it didn't make Sam want to punch him in the head.

 

 _Sammy was bored. The TV in their motel room only got three channels and they were soooooo boring. He’d already looked at all the pictures in Dean’s comic books twice. He could read some of the words, but not enough to tell the story. Dean wouldn’t read them to him because Dean was being mean._

 _Dean was mean and wouldn’t let him go outside, either. The sun was shining, even though it was almost suppertime. The motel had a pool, but Dean wouldn’t let Sam go play in it._

 _“There’s no water in it, dorkface. Just lots of leaves and stuff.” Dean turned back to the stove and stirred something in a pot. It smelled bad, like Sammy’s socks when he forgot to change them sometimes._

 _“Deeaann,” Sammy whined. “I’m bored. I wanna go outside and play. You’re stupid and I hate you.”_

 _Dean whirled around, his face red. “Shut up, Sam! Just shut up!”_

 _Sam backed up a step. “You’re mean!” he shouted, and he turned and stomped back to the couch. He huddled there, watching some guy on television talk about baseball, wanting Dad to come back and yell at Dean for being mean and take them away from this boring old motel._

 _Ten minutes later, Dean said, “Come eat, Sammy.”_

 _Sam ignored him, ignored the sounds of plates and forks being put on the table._

 _“Sammy.” Sammy kept his face turned to the television. Dean was mean and Sammy wasn’t going to talk to him._

 _“Fine. Be a brat.” Dean’s voice sounded tired and Sam started to feel bad. Maybe Dean was bored, too. Maybe he wanted Dad to come back, just like Sammy did._

 _Sam walked slowly over to the little table in the corner of the room, his untied shoelaces trailing behind him. Whatever was on the plates still smelled like old socks, but his stomach was empty, so he sat down and picked up his fork. There was a glass of milk on the table in front of him, and a glass of water by Dean’s plate. Sam looked up at Dean, saw a frown wrinkling his forehead._

 _“Dean, you wanna trade drinks?” Sammy asked._

 _“What?” Dean’s face smoothed out. “No, stupid. Drink your milk.”_

 _“I don’t like milk, Dean,” Sam said in his best whiny voice, the one that usually made Dad rub at that spot between his eyes. It wasn’t true. Sammy loved milk. He hated water; it always tasted funny when it came out of a sink._

 _“Yes, you do. Shut up and eat.” Sam shrugged and took a mouthful of food. It tasted better than it smelled, which made him feel more cheerful. There was even some hamburger in it. Hamburger Helper was gross when there wasn’t any hamburger in it._

 _Sammy watched Dean out of the corner of his eye. Every time he picked up his glass for a sip of milk, he put it down closer to Dean’s plate. Dean didn’t seem to notice, and Sam knew it was because Dean was tired. He usually noticed everything Sam did._

 _Soon, his glass was close enough to Dean’s that the next time Sammy took a drink, he picked up the glass of water instead of the glass of milk. Then he put it down on the other side of his plate and kept watching Dean._

 _Dean reached for the glass and took a drink, draining it almost dry before he figured it out. He set it down on the table with a clunk and glared at Sam. Sammy grinned back at him._

 _“You’re such a dweeb, Sammy,” Dean said, but he smiled._

 _“Sammy,” his mother said later, when Sam was asleep. “Sammy, you’re such a good boy. Remember that, Sammy. Your brother loves you. He’ll always take care of you, because you’re a good boy.”_

 

Sam had fallen into a fitful doze by the time Dean let himself silently back into the motel room. He was instantly awake and alert when he heard Dean’s soft footfalls on the carpet, but he held himself still, keeping his breathing even and regular.

Dean wasn’t drunk, but he’d been drinking, Sam could tell that just by the way he moved around the room. The far bed creaked as Dean sat down to pull off his boots, and Sam bit back a grin when he heard a whispered curse over the shoelaces. Dean stood up and there was a muffled whump as his jeans hit the floor. He’d taken his boots off before he tried to take his jeans off, so Sam knew he wasn’t too far gone, unlike that memorable occasion in Minnesota when he’d ended up sprawled across Sam’s lap after hopping madly around the room while his clothing tried its best to hogtie him.

Sam had looked down at his brother’s boxer-clad ass, at the jeans tangled around his ankles and the boots still firmly on his feet and laughed so hard he was afraid he was going to be sick.

It had taken a week for Dean to forgive him and start talking to him again, especially since Sam had been unable to resist swatting the ass in front of him a few times before Dean managed to regain his feet. Even now, Sam could get Dean to scowl at him just by saying “Minnetonka.”

Dean brushed his teeth in what Sam recognized as his _trying to be quiet_ mode, and then paused in the doorway, looking over at Sam. The bathroom light illuminated him from behind so Sam couldn’t see his face clearly, but what he could see made him swallow convulsively. The raw grief there was almost more than Sam could stand to look at, and he closed his eyes against it.

Dean made his way to the bed, pausing again to look down at Sam in the dim light from the blue neon dolphin that never ceased flashing outside their window. Sam didn’t move and sweat broke out on the back of his neck. His chest prickled with heat and he only realized how tense he was when Dean finally turned away and crawled into his own bed.

The crushing sense of irrational disappointment Sam felt when Dean turned away tightened his throat and made his eyes burn. He’d just spent six months sleeping alone, alone in bed, alone in dingy motel rooms, alone in the car, and it hit him again, every time Dean didn’t get into bed with him, that he was always going to be alone.

Dean hadn’t gotten into bed with Sam in a very long time. Those days were over, had ended when Dean had deemed Sam too old to need the warmth and comfort of Dean’s body when he slept.

Or on the very rare occasions Sam could persuade Dean to say _yes._

But Sam would never stop needing Dean, and Dean didn’t understand that, the self-sacrificing bastard. The familiar rage and grief washed over Sam, driving him from the bed and into the bathroom. He closed the door behind him with a firm click.

He splashed cold water over his face then stared at himself in the mirror. His eyes were dark, dark and desperate looking, and he took several deep breaths to calm himself down. The middle of the night was not a good time for a freak-out.

He’d had more self-control and discipline when he’d been alone than he did now. Dean distracted him.

He wasn't going to think about those months alone without Dean. It didn’t help to think about them, to dwell. He was barely keeping his rage in check as it was.

Someday, somebody was going to pay.

Wearily, he made his way back to bed and slid between cool sheets. The air-conditioning was doing its job, cranking out air cold enough that Sam thought he could almost see his breath in front of him. He huddled miserably, fighting the thoughts in his head, trying to keep it all at bay, until at last he sank into a restless sleep, filled with dreams.

It only took one shot to the heart to kill a werewolf, but Sam emptied his gun into the male lying helplessly trussed up at his feet. He pumped silver bullets into its chest and then its skull, until his gun was empty and there wasn’t much left of the thing’s head.

He was breathing hard and his arm shook as he lowered it, empty gun dangling uselessly from numb fingers. Slowly he raised his other hand and wiped his face, sweat and blood mixing together, smearing across his cheek.

It didn’t make him feel any better. No matter how many things he killed, no matter how much fury he killed them with, his sense of rage and need for retribution only grew.

“Sam, Sam, Sam,” the Trickster said. “You should have just left it at Tuesday. At least you would have had Dean, then.”

“Shut up!” Sam yelled. “Shut the fuck up, you son of a bitch!”

Sam sat straight up in bed, the Trickster’s mocking laugh echoing in his head. He should have killed that bastard when he had the chance. Dean would still be gone, but he was going to be gone soon anyway, and at least that son of a bitch would be dead.

He rubbed his fingers down his face and found his cheeks were wet. His heart pounded and he stared at his hands, but there was no blood. Blinking, he realized there were only tears on his cheeks, and he brushed them angrily away.

Dean stirred in the other bed, and Sam held silent, waiting for him to settle again. When he heard Dean’s gentle snores, he let himself relax.

As he fell asleep again, he realized he’d woken up before his mother had come to him.

When he woke again at dawn, he couldn’t remember if she ever had.

In the morning, Dean was quiet as he showered and dressed. Not hung-over quiet, just the kind of quiet he sometimes got when he was thinking something through.

The logistics of working a case, the need for conversation and consultation, seemed to have indeed mellowed Dean out. He didn’t seem angry so much as uneasy, and for that Sam was grateful. He hated it when Dean was mad at him. It made him feel like he’d failed.

He _was_ failing, though. He was failing to find a way to save Dean from Hell. Killing the crossroads demon had been useless, even if it made him feel better. Dean had taken a while to get over that one, too, although he’d hidden it better than he did this time.

“Sam.” Dean snapped his fingers in front of Sam’s nose and Sam’s eyes flew to his face, startled out of his reverie. “Dude, where the hell were you? Dreaming about ponies and unicorns?”

Sam bent down to finish putting his shoes on, hiding his face, his cheeks warm.

"Seriously, Sam, are you okay?"

"Why are you always asking me that? I'm fine," Sam huffed, straightening up.

"You just seem distracted, or something, "Dean shrugged.

"Well, I'm fine," Sam repeated. "But, um, thanks."

"Sam." Dean avoided Sam's eyes. "I've been thinking. And, um, maybe. I mean, maybe we could...if you want -" He stopped. "Dammit, Sam, I'm just worried about you is all," he finished gruffly.

Out that morass of defensiveness, Sam picked up on the words _maybe we could_ and he smiled a little. "It's okay, Dean."

Dean cleared his throat and rummaged in his bag for his gun. Sam just watched him, still smiling.

“Hey.” Dean checked the safety on his gun, and then tucked it into his waistband. “You’d better not be thinking about what I think you’re thinking about.” The warning in his voice was unmistakable, as was the fear. Dean thought he could hide his thoughts and feelings from Sam, but really, he was as transparent as the windshield of the Impala. "No more of that summoning shit."

Sam shook his head as he stood up. “I’m not thinking about anything except breakfast,” he lied.

“Good. Because I will _kick your ass_ if you pull that shit again. I mean it, Sammy,” Dean said, scowling.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam said. “You ready to go?” Sam tugged his sleeves down over his wrists as he spoke.

“Witches are skeevy and I don’t want you getting involved with them,” Dean said, pointing his finger at Sam. "No matter how many summoning rituals they dangle in front of you. I don’t care _what_ your pet demon tells you, you got that?” Dean poked Sam in the chest with his finger, and Sam barely resisted the urge to grab it and bend it backwards like he’d done countless time when they were kids. The only thing that stopped him was the real fear in Dean's eyes.

“Put that finger away before you lose it, dude,” Sam said. He kept his voice neutral. He wasn’t going to argue with Dean about Ruby, not now. Ruby knew what Sam needed, and she’d let him know when she found it. No point in getting Dean all riled up again until he had to. Plenty of time for that when Ruby finally came through.

“I mean it, Sam,” Dean said again, as if Sam hadn’t heard him the first ten times, and he brushed by Sam and tugged the door open. “Now, who wants breakfast?”

And just that fast Sam was back in Broward County, in that motel room where he’d had to watch Dean get ready for the day over and over and over again. Most days they’d made it out the door, but some days they hadn’t. Dean slipped in the shower or electrocuted himself shaving or his gun went off accidentally – right, like that would ever actually happen – or, on one memorable occasion that Sam would never, ever be able to forget as long as he lived, he was so busy singing, trying to annoy Sam, that he tied his bootlaces together by mistake, stood up, took a step, and fell over and cracked his head open on the edge of the table.

Those days were the worst, because it was over so quickly and then Sam would wake up and have to start again, echoes of the previous morning’s gruesome death still ringing in his head.

“Jesus, what is _wrong_ with you this morning, Sam? I swear, you’ve got the attention span of a fruit fly. Are you sure you're -”

"Dude if you ask me if I’m okay again, I swear..." Sam warned. With an effort, he pushed the memories aside and followed his brother out the door.

Their waitress at the diner this morning had a big round button pinned to her uniform, with a picture of a little boy on it, wearing a football uniform and a helmet that looked like it was twice as big as his head. His eyes shone proudly out from under the helmet, even though Sam thought the weight of it was probably putting a strain on the poor kid’s neck. PATRICK was proclaimed in big red letters.

“That your son?” Dean asked, after he’d ordered the breakfast special with a side of bacon.

A bright smile lit up the woman’s face. She nodded. “That’s my Patrick, yeah. Got his first game this afternoon.” She turned to Sam. “What can I get for you, sweetie?” She took his order and walked back to the counter with a jaunty sway of her hips.

When she brought their food, Dean’s eyes narrowed as he automatically peered down the front of her uniform when she bent over to slide Sam’s plate in front of him. Sam’s eyes flickered to her cleavage and he saw it, too.

A necklace with the same amulet he’d last seen hanging around Kathy Jackson’s neck.

“So,” Dean said around a mouthful of pancakes after she’d walked away. “That’s interesting.” He stabbed his fork in the air in Sam’s direction. Sam said a silent _thank you_ that the fork was empty. That wasn’t always the case when Dean got to talking and eating at the same time.

“Yeah,” Sam said, looking around for some jelly to spread on his toast.

“What do you say we ask our waitress a few questions,” Dean said, as she came over to refill their coffee cups. “Hey,” he added, looking up through his lashes with the smile Sam knew from personal experience could literally charm the pants off just about anyone. Dean focused on her nametag.

“Kelly. Hi. Listen, my brother wanted me to ask you about your necklace.” Dean smirked as Sam glared at him. “Sammy here just loves fine jewelry, and he thinks your necklace is to die for.” Sam kicked him under the table and Dean grunted. “Can I ask where you got it?” He jerked his thumb toward Sam. “He’d ask you himself, only he’s a shy one with the ladies.”

Sam smiled awkwardly and silently plotted revenge.

Kelly put a hand hesitantly over her amulet, her fingertips rubbing the silver almost unconsciously. She looked down at Sam with an uncertain smile. “Penelope sells them. Down at the gift shop on the corner. The _Uncommon Market_.” She topped off Dean’s cup and turned away.

“Penelope?” Sam said.

Dean shrugged. “I guess we’re going shopping, honey.”

The _Uncommon Market_ was uncommon, all right. It was crowded and dusty and full of candles. Between the candles and the incense, Sam could barely breathe. Beside him, Dean sneezed twice. “Shit.”

There were sparkling crystals and silver chains and soft, silky material draped all over the place. Small animal statues nestled together on every shelf. The woman behind the counter was dressed in low-riding jeans and a very tight t-shirt with what looked like a My Little Pony unicorn on it. She had long dark red hair and was wearing very little makeup. She didn’t need it.

She was stunningly beautiful.

Dean appeared to be stunned right into speechlessness, so Sam nodded in greeting and said, “Hey.”

She nodded back, watching them with a smile of amusement as they tried to navigate the cluttered space without breaking anything.

“Can I help you?” she asked in a cool voice.

“FBI,” Sam said, showing her his badge. “I’m Agent Jagger, this is Agent Richards.”

Dean came to with a start, closed his mouth, and after fumbling in his jacket pocket in a way that made the woman’s smile widen a bit, produced the crumpled up piece of paper with the drawing of the blood pattern that had been on Melissa Harrison’s bed. He unfolded it and held it out to her. “Do you recognize this symbol?”

The woman looked at the paper without taking it from Dean’s hand. She raised her eyes to his face and said, without blinking, “No.”

“You’re lying,” Sam said, stepping forward.

“Excuse me?” Now she blinked.

“Sam,” Dean started.

Sam felt a surge of impatience go through him. He wanted to be anywhere else right now, someplace where he could spend time working out Dean’s deal. He didn’t want to be here, didn’t have time for this meaningless case, and he certainly didn’t have time for lying bitches who made his brother’s mouth fall open in astonished lust.

“She is,” he threw at Dean. He turned back to the woman behind the counter. “What is this thing? What does it mean?”

She must have seen something in his face, because she shot an nervous look at Dean, then answered Sam with a shrug. “It’s a hieroglyph. It means _mother_.”

“Do you sell them here?” Dean asked.

She nodded, somewhat reluctantly, it seemed to Sam. “Yes.”

“I’m gonna need a list of names of all the people you’ve sold them to,” Dean stated. She looked at him in amused disbelief. “And I need to know where you got them from in the first place.”

“What is this, _Law and Order_? I don’t think so,” she retorted.

“We can come back with a warrant,” Dean threatened, as if he truly had the full weight of the Federal government behind him.

“No, you can’t,” the woman said, eying them scornfully. That infuriating smile lingered on her face, and Sam wanted to smack it off. He shoved his fists into his pockets.

“What’s your name?” he demanded.

“Penelope Waters,” she answered. She waved a hand dismissively. “You can find that out anywhere in town.”

Sam started to speak but Dean interrupted him. “A woman is dead,” he said. “Someone you sold one of those necklaces to, and this -” he waved the drawing under her nose – “is the blood pattern we found on her bed.”

Penelope paled and stared down at the paper. “I know she’s dead.” She brought her head up again and said fiercely, “But I don’t know why! It’s horrible, but I don’t know why.”

“Then help us,” Dean said. “Tell us who else you sold one of those necklaces to.”

She looked at them for a moment longer, then slowly drew out a piece of paper and a pen from under the counter and started to write.

 

 _It was Sam’s birthday and Dad was gone again. They were in Milwaukee, living in a small apartment in a crappy part of town. Dad had only been gone a couple of days, and he’d already called to say he’d be back tomorrow, but it was Sam’s seventh birthday and Dad wasn’t there, so Sammy was kind of mad._

 _“Come on, buttface. Let’s go out.” Dean held the door open and gestured at Sam._

 _“Go out? Where?” Sammy asked suspiciously. They really weren’t supposed to go out, but it was the middle of the day and it was probably okay, as long as Dean said it was._

 _Besides, Sammy didn’t care what Dad said. He wasn’t here. Sammy bounded down the stairs and out onto the street after Dean._

 _They walked down the cracked and uneven sidewalk, Sammy trailing along next to Dean. He made Dean stop and look in all the windows as they went. Lots of the storefronts were empty, dirty windows with dusty old piles of stuff behind them, but some of them were still open for business._

 _They came to a toy store, open and inviting, and Sam pulled on Dean’s arm. “Can we go in and look at the toys, Dean?”_

 _“Sure, squirt,” Dean said, smiling._

 _Sammy frowned. “Don’t call me_ squirt. _”_

 _There were rows of shelves, piled high with toys. Sammy could tell they weren’t new, but that was okay. He looked around to make sure Dean was engrossed in flipping through a stack of comic books, and then headed straight for a bin filled with My Little Ponies._

 _Dean would tease him a lot if he saw, but there was something about the different colors and the long, silky tails that fascinated Sam. Some of the girls in his class brought their Ponies to school and played with them at recess. Sometimes they let Sam play, too._

 _Sam was holding a grubby white unicorn with a blue mane and tail when Dean’s voice said, right in his ear, “Aww, that’s so sweet, Sammy.”_

 _Sammy felt his face go hot and he quickly dropped the unicorn back in the bin. He waited for Dean to tease him some more, but Dean didn’t. Dean’s hand snaked around him and plucked the unicorn from the bin._

 _“Two dollars, huh? That’s a lot of money for a chick toy, Sammy. But since you_ are _a girl….” Dean headed for the cash register, and Sammy watched in shock as he handed over a few crinkled-up bills to the old guy behind the counter in exchange for the unicorn and a couple of tattered looking comic books._

 _As they left the store, Dean whapped Sam in the chest with the unicorn, handing it over with a grin. “Happy Birthday, Sammy.”_

 _“Thanks, Dean,” Sammy said happily._

 _“Just don’t tell Dad where you got that, if he asks,” Dean said. “He thinks both his kids are boys."_

 _That night when Sammy dreamed about his mother, her long, shiny hair was a silky blue._

 

“Okay,” Dean said as they headed back to the car. “Five names. Melissa Harrison, Kathy Jackson, Kelly Peterson, Monica Sullivan, and Sandy Olliver. We should go back and talk to Kathy Jackson again, and Kelly, too. I’ll do that, and you see what you can find out about the other two.”

“Okay. Ask if either of them saw the dark-haired girl Kathy Jackson was talking about,” Sam told him.

Dean dropped Sam off at their motel, yelling out the window as he peeled out of the parking lot, “And find out what bar Penelope Waters hangs out in after work!” with a cheerful leer.

Sam stood there, heat rising in waves from the hot asphalt, and fumed. He knew he should be glad for the leer, cheerful or otherwise, because it meant Dean’s dark mood had lifted at last.

On the other hand, the more cheerful Dean was, the more denial it meant he was in. He was like a duck swimming across a pond, all happy quacking on the surface, but kicking furiously and desperately underneath the water.

Sam went inside, the air conditioning hitting him with a blast of cold air. The sweat on his face immediately chilled, and he shivered. Reaching for his laptop, he settled himself on his bed, stretched out with his back against the headboard. He hesitated, and then pulled his phone out of his pocket.

“Bobby, hey,” Sam said when he heard Bobby’s voice.

“Hey, Sam. You guys still in Florida?”

“Yeah. I hate this damn place, Bobby.”

“So you've mentioned.” Bobby waited for Sam to speak, but now that Sam had him on the phone, he didn’t know for sure what he wanted to ask him. Bobby cleared his throat.

“So, Bobby, yeah, has Ruby been to see you lately?” As far as he knew, the last time Ruby had been at Bobby’s place was when she showed him how to fix the Colt, but it didn’t hurt to ask.

“No. Why?” Bobby’s voice was flat. He didn’t hate Ruby the way Dean did, but he sure as hell didn’t trust her, either.

Sam sighed. “I was just hoping you’d heard from her. I’m waiting for -” he stopped. He wasn’t sure whether he should tell Bobby what exactly it was he was waiting for Ruby to bring him.

“This ain’t something to do with what you were telling me about last month, is it?” Last month? Sam still had trouble figuring out what month it was. Dean kept looking at him funny every time he thought it was August when it was really February. “Cuz I gotta tell you, Sam,” Bobby continued, “It won’t do to go and get yourself involved with no witches. Dean would kick your ass twice around the block if he found out, not to mention witches are -”

Sam interrupted Bobby mid-rant. “No, no, Bobby, of course not.” He paused and rubbed at his forehead. “It’s just…I have to do _something_ , Bobby.”

“Well, just stay away from witches, Sam.”

“Okay, listen, sure, I will, thanks. If you see Ruby….”

“I’ll send her your way, yeah.” Even over the phone, Sam couldn’t miss the sarcasm in Bobby’s voice. “She’s a demon, ya moron. Dean’d kick my ass if I sent her your way.”

Sam sighed and decided not to argue. He wouldn’t get anywhere and chances were Ruby was nowhere near Bobby anyway. “So, listen, Bobby, did you find anything else out about that symbol?”

“Nope. It’s a hieroglyph, it means mother, and it has to do with Isis. Pretty simple.”

“Yeah. So what’s the lore?”

“She was the protector of women and children. It don’t pay to get on her bad side, she had some powerful magic.”

“Okay, Bobby. Thanks.” Sam sighed. There was nothing there he hadn’t already discovered from his own research.

Sam opened his computer and started digging around for information on the names Penelope had given them.

Half an hour later, he closed the laptop and looked at his notes. All five of the women on the list were married, had two children each, and were born in Sarasota. That seemed unusual. Sam thought most people living in Florida had come there from someplace else. Or, maybe not, he reasoned, everyone had to be born somewhere, sometimes even in Sarasota.

The door opened and Dean came in, tossing the car keys onto the table, carrying a six-pack of beer in one hand and a McDonald's bag in his teeth. He grabbed the bag with his other hand. “Dude, get this,” he said, once his mouth was empty.

"Monica Sullivan is already dead!” he and Sam said in unison.

“I know!” Again in unison. Dean smiled, delight written all over his face. It was irresistible and Sam could feel his answering smile widen.

“Apparently she died in a car accident,” Sam said, and he watched as Dean’s smile faded. Dean nodded.

“Yeah," he said, "and her husband wasn’t anywhere around at the time. I talked to him, and the guy’s still pretty shaken up. I saw the kids, too. They look like they might be too young to know what’s going on. Like, the oldest one is only four.” Dean looked away.

Right. Like four years old was too young to grasp that your mother died a violent death and you were never going to see her again. Sam's fists clenched with the need that itched underneath his skin all the time. The need, the absolute _thirst_ for revenge that would never be slaked, no matter how many demons they killed or what color their eyes were.

That yellow-eyed bastard had taken both of Sam's parents away from him and Dean, and that red-eyed bitch had made a deal to take Dean away from him and then she refused, _refused_ to make another deal with Sam.

Sam sometimes felt like he wouldn't rest until every demon in hell had been destroyed.

"So, yeah," Dean continued. "The guy didn't know much. The cops still don't know what happened. Her car just went off the road and hit a tree. She mentioned a girl with long dark hair a couple of times. He says their marriage was fine, no bullshit about loving her too much. He’s not crazy like that Harrison dude."

Dean sat down and put the beer on the floor between the beds. Sam sat up and reached for the bottle Dean had just opened with his ring. "Kelly Peterson wasn't home and Kathy Jackson closed the door in my face, after telling me that her jewelry was none of my business. I think she's scared," Dean said.

"She probably should be," agreed Sam. He watched as Dean tipped his head back and took a deep swig of his beer. The long line of his throat presented itself to Sam, and Sam had a sudden need to touch, to taste, to mark the smooth skin of it. His fingers clenched around his own beer bottle until his knuckles were white. *

 

 _"He misses me, Sammy. Dean misses me and it makes him sad sometimes," Sam's mother crooned in his ear, her voice like music. They were floating together, somewhere dark, Sammy didn't know where. He didn't like it, but his mother was singing to him and he tried not to be afraid. He was a big boy, too old to be afraid._

 _He’d fallen asleep to the sound of Dean’s quiet sobs. Dean cried in his sleep sometimes, but Sammy never told anyone._

 _When he woke up, Dean was still sleeping next to him, his face turned toward Sammy on the pillows, sunlight across his face. His freckles looked like gold. There were tear tracks on his cheeks and Sammy reached out to trace them with a fingertip. Dean shifted in his sleep, murmuring, "It's okay, Sammy. I'm here."_

 

The Ollivers lived in a big, yellow stucco house with a red tile roof and fancy wrought iron bars over the windows. It looked like a Spanish villa, and there were red hibiscus trees all around it. Sandy Olliver answered the door with a small child at her feet, just like Kathy Jackson had.

Unlike Kathy, though, she frowned down at her child, a thin-looking boy of indeterminate age and hissed, “Go back to the kitchen!”

The child cast a scared look up at her and scurried away down the dimly lit corridor behind them.

Sandy turned back to the door with a pleasant smile replacing the irritated frown she’d directed at her little boy. Sam’s anger, never far from the surface, started trying to make itself heard. He closed his mouth and let Dean do the talking.

But Dean wasn’t happy about seeing children mistreated in any way and he was too busy glaring at Sandy Olliver to make the usual introductions. Sandy’s smile faded and her face tightened into something strained and ugly.

“Can I help you?”

“We’d like to ask you a few questions about your necklace,” Dean said without ceremony or introduction. He pointed to the pendant around her neck.

Sandy paled under her Florida tan and she stepped back, trying to close the door as she did. Sam put out a hand to stop her.

“Did you know that Melissa Harrison and Monica Sullivan are dead?” Sam asked bluntly.

Her eyes widened and she stared at Sam, fear written all over her face. He tried without much success to arrange his features into his usual expression of sympathetic understanding and she nodded shortly.

There was the sound of soft crying coming from somewhere inside the house and her eyes narrowed.

“Chrissy!” The sound of her suddenly raised voice echoed stridently in the still morning air. “Chrissy, get in here!”

A pale blonde girl, who looked even thinner than her brother, edged into the hallway. She approached her mother cautiously, and Sam noticed she stayed well back out of reach. She glanced nervously at the two strange men at the door.

“Go feed your brother. Give him a bowl of cereal. The measuring cup is on the counter. A half-cup, no more.” Sandy’s voice was cold and Sam had a good idea what living in that house must be like.

The little girl bit her lip and looked up at her mother. She took a deep breath, like she was gathering her courage, and said, “Can I -”

“ _May_ I,” her mother snapped. “And, no.” She waited a moment, but the little girl didn’t move. “Go!”

Chrissy hurried away.

Sam was afraid to even look at Dean’s face. He could feel him practically vibrating with tension beside him.

“Mrs. Olliver. We need to know about the necklace. Two people are dead, Mrs. Olliver.” Sam managed a reasonable facsimile of his _we’re just trying to help here_ voice, but it wasn’t easy.

“I bought it at the _Uncommon Market_. I bought it because I liked it. I didn’t know Melissa and Monica until after I bought it. We were all at the beach at the same time one day, and we were all wearing our necklaces. We started having play dates with our kids after that. That’s all I know.”

Sam nodded and reached into his suit coat pocket for a card. He held it out to Sandy Olliver and said, “Call us if you think of anything else.”

Sandy snatched the card out of his hand, stepped back and slammed the door in their faces.

This time Sam let her.

Dean was silent until he slid behind the wheel of the Impala. He slammed the heel of his hand against the steering wheel and snarled, “That bitch!” Sam placed a gentle hand on his wrist. Dean didn’t shake him off.

“I know,” Sam said. “I know.”

“Those kids – that little girl was _hungry_ , Sam, and that bitch wasn’t gonna let her eat anything.” His breath hitched and for a moment Sam had to fight the impulse to march back into that house and take those two kids away with him.

“There are all kinds of mothers, Dean,” he finally said.

They sat in silence for a minute, and then Dean did shake Sam’s hand off. He patted the steering wheel apologetically. “I’m sorry, baby,” he said, and Sam felt a rush of affection for his goofy brother. He bit his lip to hide his smile.

Dean looked at his watch. “It’s lunch time. Let’s go to the diner and see if Kelly is working. One of these women has got to talk to us. What the hell does any of this have to do with that Isis chick? What’s the lore?”

“Well," Sam said, “Isis was an Egyptian goddess of motherhood and fertility, among other things.”

“What other things?” Dean asked as he pulled out of the Ollivers’ street.

“Power and magic,” Sam answered. He dug out the notes he’d brought with him from his research yesterday. “And I quote – “The Mother is a life-giver and the source of nurturing, devotion, patience and unconditional love. The ability to forgive and provide for her children and put them before herself is the essence of a good mother.”” He paused for breath, and then continued.

“’In its shadow aspect the Mother can be devouring, abusive and abandoning. The shadow Mother can also make her children feel guilty about becoming independent and leaving her. It is not necessary to be a biological Mother to have this stereotype. It can refer to anyone who has a lifelong pattern of nurturing and devotion to living things.’”

Sam thought that pretty much covered it.

 

 _Sometimes when Mary came to him, Sam was angry at her. “You left me,” he would cry. “How could you leave me if you loved me?”_

 _“I didn’t want to go, Sammy. I do love you,” she would sigh. Her tears left shimmering tracks down her soft cheeks._

 _“Go away._ I _don’t love_ you _.” Sam turned away from her._

 _When she disappeared, he would call after her to come back, that he didn’t mean it, that he loved her._

 _But she was always gone. Eventually, he stopped being angry at her._

 _Kelly was working, but they lucked out and found her on break when they arrived at the diner. The other waitress on duty jerked her head towards a booth in the back where Kelly was sitting, nursing a cup of coffee. Sam headed over, while Dean hung back to get some coffee for himself and Sam._

 _“So, Kelly, do you mind if we sit, ask you a few questions?” Sam said as Kelly looked up at him from her coffee and the morning paper._

 _“Questions about what?” Kelly asked, as she waved her hand at the bench opposite her in invitation._

 _Sam sat down with a nod of thanks and said, “Tell me about your necklace.”_

 _Kelly frowned at him. “Why? What about my necklace?”_

 _Dean slid in beside him, the amulet around his neck swinging as he moved. Sam stared at it, remembering how he’d worn it around his own neck during the time Dean was gone. It had made him feel like a part of Dean was still with him, and he wondered how the motherhood hieroglyphic made the women who wore it feel._

 _It obviously wasn’t a guarantee that the wearer would be a good mother._

 _“What does it mean?”_

 _“I just thought it was pretty….” She trailed off when Dean shifted impatiently in his seat._

 _“Two people are dead, Kelly, people who wore necklaces just like yours,” he said._

 _Kelly stared down at her hands. She nodded. “I know.” She paused, and then said, “Melissa bought it first. She said it made her a good mother, kept her children safe. We all – the five of us, I mean – we all met once a week at the playground in the park near the beach. Our kids would play and we’d sit and talk. Melissa said the necklace had power and told us we should all get one, too.” She shrugged. “So we did.”_

 _Kelly looked at them across the table, fear finally showing on her face. “I’m scared. I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know what any of it means. I don’t want to die, too.”_

 _“Okay, first thing you do is maybe stop wearing the necklace?” Dean said, shaking his head. “I mean, what're you thinking?”_

 _“Can I see it?” Sam asked, holding out his hand. Kelly reached behind her neck to unfasten the chain and handed it over._

 _It was warm to the touch, warmer than it should be just from Kelly’s skin. It seemed to almost vibrate with life, and Kelly looked somehow diminished without it._

 _“Did the woman at the store, Penelope, tell you anything about them?” Dean asked._

 _Kelly shrugged. “Just that they symbolized mothers, is all. The mother figure is very powerful, you know.”_

 _“Yeah, we know,” Sam said. “Okay, so you and the other mothers talked while your kids played. I assume you talked about stuff like your marriages? Anybody having any trouble in that department?”_

 _“Well, sometimes Melissa would say things…things about her husband. Melissa wanted to have more kids and he didn’t want to, but he spent a lot of time talking about what a perfect mother she was. She said it was getting a little weird.”_

 _“And what about Mommy Dearest? If these necklaces are supposed to make you such good mothers, why is Sandy such a bitch to her kids?” Dean asked bluntly._

 _“I don’t know. We talked about it sometimes, when she wasn’t there.” Kelly looked troubled. “I know she can be – well, she’s not very patient.”_

 _“Yeah,” Dean snorted. “That’s like saying a great white shark isn’t very friendly." Kelly smiled sadly and nodded. Sam shot Dean a look and Dean rolled his eyes._

 _“What about a girl with dark hair? Have you ever seen her, just, you know, hanging around?” Dean asked._

 _“A girl in a red t-shirt? Kelly asked. “Yeah, sometimes. She never says anything, she just looks at me with these sad eyes and then leaves. I don’t know who she is.”_

 _"Okay, Kelly, can you think of anything else? I mean, does the necklace make you feel...different when you wear it?" Sam asked._

 _"Yeah." For the first time, Kelly looked scared. "It makes me feel like I'm not alone. Like there's someone watching me."_

 _  
_Most of the time, Sam didn’t think about his mother when he was awake. He’d gotten used to his dreams, so used to them that sometimes he forgot he had them._   
_

_He had questions about her, of course. Questions his father or his brother could answer, if Sam was careful to ask them in the right way, at the right time._

 _Sometimes he would start to tell Dean things that Mary told him in a dream, before he remembered that he wasn’t supposed to say anything about that. And he somehow knew that Dean might be jealous, maybe, that Sam could see their mother and talk to her and Dean couldn’t._

 _But it made him feel like he wasn’t alone. No matter how much Dad pushed, or how many times they moved or how often Dad left them alone while he worked, Sam never felt lonely._

 _The first time Dean went on a hunt with Dad, Sam was twelve, old enough to stay by himself for a couple of days. He had school to keep him busy, homework and soccer practice and his friends._

 _Dean was so excited. It was a werewolf and he talked about it nonstop._

 _They were gone for two nights. For those two nights while Sam was by himself, Mary was there with him. He wasn’t alone. But for some reason, he still felt alone and abandoned. It took him a while, but he finally figured out what was missing._

 _Dean. Dean wasn’t there. Without Dean by his side, Sammy could barely breathe._

 _Mary just smiled and said, “I know, Sammy.”_

 

“Look at this.” Sam let himself into the motel, waving a newspaper clipping in his hand. “I think I found something.’”

Dean turned away from Sam’s laptop, turned around and looked up at Sam. Sam’s breath caught for a minute at how beautiful his brother was. They stared at each other, and then Dean blinked and looked away.

“Whatcha got there, Sammy?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“Um,” Sam looked down at the paper in his hand. “Right. Belinda Callaway. Fourteen year old girl, died six weeks ago, probable suicide. Well, she hung herself, that’s pretty definite. She left a note saying she did it to get away from her mother. And look at her picture. It matches the description Monica Sullivan gave of the girl she said was following her. The others, too.”

A somber looking young girl with long dark hair and serious eyes stared at Sam from the newspaper clipping.

“Why would a fourteen year old girl want to get away from her mother?” Dean asked.

Sam shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe her mom wouldn’t let her go to the mall with her friends?” It was supposed to be a joke, but Sam's timing was off and it fell flat. A dead girl wasn’t really very funny.

“I’m sure you know all about the ways of fourteen year-old girls, Sammy,” Dean said, the gibe automatic and without his usual smirk. He didn't think it was funny, either.

“Haha,” Sam said, distractedly. “Move over.” He pushed Dean out of the way and sat down at his computer. Dean swiped at him half-heartedly. Sam typed _Belinda Callaway_ into Google and hit search. There were half a dozen hits and he clicked on the first one.

It was a detailed report of her death, including the information that she had lived with her mother. Her parents had been divorced for years and her father’s whereabouts were unknown. There were reports from friends that the mother had been abusive.

Belinda had been cremated.

“Her mother’s name is Louise Callaway,” Sam said. “She still lives in Sarasota. We should go talk to her.”

The house where Louise Callaway lived was run down and dilapidated-looking. Peeling paint, dirty windows, overgrown grass, flowerbeds overgrown with weeds gave the whole place an air of neglect. There was a pile of old newspapers stacked outside the door.

“It looks pretty deserted, Sam,” Dean said.

Sam nodded. He tapped on the front door and it swung open under his hand. They moved slowly together into a dimly lit living room. The smell hit Sam as soon as they crossed the threshold.

“Aw, man,” Dean choked, his hand coming up to cover his mouth.

They found the body in the kitchen, crawling with flies. Sam heard Dean gagging behind him. Ignoring the stench, Sam looked closely at the woman on the floor. She was sprawled on her back, a carving knife protruding from her chest. Her eyes were wide open, a rictus of terror on her face.

Both her hands were grasping the handle of the large knife, the fingers white and curved.

Around her neck was the same pendant every other mother in town seemed to be wearing.

“Did she stab herself?” Dean asked, squatting down to get a closer look. He grimaced as a fat fly buzzed lazily around his ear, and quickly stood back up again.

Sam cocked his head, considering. He nodded. “I’d guess yes, judging by the angle of her hands on that knife. I’d say it’s been more than a few days, too.”

Dean nodded. “What the hell, Sam?” He poked around in a cascade of books scattered around the cluttered countertop. Picking up what looked like a journal, he flipped through the pages, stopping to read every once in a while.

Meanwhile, Sam lifted the amulet off Louise Callaway’s chest with a pencil, examining it. He tugged at the chain until he found the clasp and unfastened it, then held the amulet up to the light to study it more closely. It looked just like all the rest.

"You know, all these women have a different story about how and when they got these amulets," he said thoughtfully.

“Goddamnit,” Dean swore. “I don’t wanna read this.”

“What is it?” Sam asked. Dean looked at Sam with a sick, furious expression.

“Belinda’s diary. Let’s just say no one would have nominated Louise Callaway for Mother of the Year.” He shook his head. “ _People,_ ” he said, loathing in his voice. He picked up another book from the pile.

“Look here, Sam.”

He held out a pink and white book with the words _My Baby Book_ embossed across the cover. Sam straightened up and looked over Dean’s shoulder while he flipped through the book.

It was all about Belinda, her birthday, her weight at birth, when she’d smiled her first smile, lost her first tooth, taken her first steps. And there it was: baby’s first haircut. A ringlet of fine silky brown hair was stuck to the page with a strip of yellowing Scotch tape.

“This is it, Dean. This is why Belinda is still hanging around, even though she was cremated.”

Dean flipped open his phone and punched in 911. “I’d like to report a dead body at 583 Pelican Road.” He flipped his phone closed before the operator could ask him any questions and said, “Let’s get out of here.”

Sam tore the page with the hair taped to it out of the baby book, folded it carefully, and tucked it into his pocket.

“Bitch got what she deserved, you ask me,” Dean muttered, looking back at the body sprawled grotesquely on the kitchen floor.

"Maybe she started out trying to be a good mother," Sam said, looking at Dean over his shoulder as they hurried down the sidewalk to the car. "Maybe she just got tired."

"Fuck that, Sam. People get tired all the time. It doesn't mean you stop doing your damn job. It doesn't mean you can treat a kid bad, just because you're tired."

"No, I know," said Sam as he got into the car. The drive back to their motel was silent, each of them lost in their own thoughts.

Until Dean turned on the radio and Asia started singing _Heat of the Moment_ and Sam had a full-blown panic attack for the first time since he was in the fifth grade and he forgot to do his history homework.

He couldn’t breathe. He absolutely couldn’t catch his breath to save his life. Dean swerved over to the edge of the road, Michigan license plates honking at him from all sides, threw the car into park, and shoved Sam’s head none-too-gently between his knees.

“Breathe, Sammy, come on.” He rubbed small circles on Sam’s back. It was very soothing. Eventually, Sam started breathing again.

“Dude,” he said, still too light-headed to sit up straight. “Do you remember that Civil War diorama you helped me make in the fifth grade?”

Dean snorted and kept rubbing. “You used all my toy soldiers, Sammy. Sure I remember. I held your Care Bear hostage until I got ‘em back.” His hand stopped moving. “Not that I still played with ‘em,” he added hastily. “Those suckers were collectors items.”

“Sure, Dean. And I never had a Care Bear, asshole,” Sam croaked.

“You’re such a freak.” Dean took his hand away. “You want to tell me what the hell that was all about?” Dean asked as Sam managed to get himself upright in the seat.

“Not really.” Dean glared at him menacingly and Sam folded. “Okay, that was the song I heard every single one of those Tuesday mornings when I woke up. Don’t you remember? You sang along with the radio every time.” Sam shivered. He loved Dean’s voice, but…

“Yeah, I guess I kinda do remember.” Dean flicked the radio off. “Sorry about that.”

When they got back to their room, Sam sat huddled at the small table in the corner, still trying to find his fucking center. Dean stretched out on the bed, staring at the ceiling and practically thrumming with tension.

“So, is Belinda a vengeful spirit or a death omen?” Sam asked. Dean sat up, looking startled.

“I don’t know, Sammy.” He frowned. “It doesn’t really make any difference why she’s here. We’ve got to waste her.” He flinched at his own words. “I mean, I feel sorry for the kid, but….” he trailed off, then met Sam’s eyes. “Sometimes people suck, Sammy.” He sounded so defeated. The exhaustion of this whole past year shone in his eyes.

Sam knew that people sucked. It’s not like he and Dean had ever had any illusions about the dark and evil things in the world. They'd never been allowed to have any. But Dean had faith in people, thought they were worth saving.

It made Sam angry when Dean was disappointed.

“Sammy?” Dean’s eyes were sad, his defenses brought low by someone who hadn’t done something as simple as treasure the life that was entrusted to her. Her job.

“Okay,” Sam said. “Yeah.”

Sam stood up and moved slowly to the bed, giving Dean plenty of time to change his mind. Dean watched him with a sorrowful hunger on his face. He kept his eyes on Sam and Sam felt heat go through him like wildfire.

Sam pulled his shirt off over his head as he walked, toed off his shoes, unzipped his jeans. They hit the floor by the time he reached the bed. Dean’s gaze was steady and his eyes were wide. Sam smiled and got a small answering smile from his brother.

Dean reached for Sam, got a hand in the waistband of his boxers and tugged him closer. Sam went down, sprawling out on top of Dean, and Dean grunted.

“Get off me, you weigh a ton.”

Sam didn’t get off him. He shoved his hand down the front of Dean’s jeans, and Dean sucked in a breath and said, “Dude, your freakish hands don’t fit down there!”

Sam pulled back and went for Dean’s belt buckle. “Get your pants off, then,” he said.

Dean didn’t waste any time complying and Sam grinned down at him, fingers wrapped around Dean’s dick, thumb making slow circles around the head.

“Sam, c’mon. Quit fucking around,” Dean hissed. He tried to glare up at Sam, but Sam started jacking him harder and faster and that effectively shot his effort all to hell. Dean’s eyes closed and he actually whimpered, which Sam gleefully stored up for later use.

Sam knew how to do comfort sex, how to distract Dean when necessary, and he made things as quick and dirty as Dean needed them to be.

After, Dean whispered, almost to himself, “I just want you to be okay, Sammy.”

Sam nodded. “I know.”

 

 _”I was a good mother, Sam. I knew I would be. I protected you boys.” Mary sounded almost smug, and then she frowned at Sam. Her white nightgown looked gray, almost grubby, and the slash of blood across the front of it was dried and crusted over, as if it had been there a long time._

 _Sam didn’t argue with her, he would never, but his mother continued fretfully. “Your father – he didn’t know anything about any of it. I had to do it all.” She gestured down at herself with disgust. “And look what happened.”_

 _“Mom,” Sam started to say, but she cut him off._

 _“No, Sam. No.”_

 

Sam startled awake when his cell phone rang. Expecting it to be Bobby, Sam looked at the caller ID anyway. He didn’t recognize the number, but saw that it was local.

The late afternoon sun slanted in through the window.

“Hello?” Dean stirred against him, snuffling into Sam's armpit.

“Hello, is this Agent Jagger?”

“Um, sure,” said Sam. “Who’s this?” He covered the phone and tried to elbow Dean awake. "Dude, that tickles."

“This is Sandy Olliver.”

“How can I help you, Mrs. Olliver?” Dean's eyes opened at that and he looked up at Sam, frowning.

“I think there’s someone in my house.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Some _thing.”_

Sam shook his head and sat up. Dean followed suit, his chin resting on Sam's shoulder. “Are you alone? Where are your children?” He pointed to Dean and then to his clothes. _Quick,_ he mouthed. Dean stood and pulled his pants on, reaching for his shirt.

“They’re with my mother. It’s Tuesday, she always takes them on Tuesday.” Sam heard a loud _bang_ and then a crash, as if furniture was being overturned. Sandy gave a little scream. “Oh, god, hurry. You have to help me!”

“Hang on,” Sam said, and he dropped he phone on the bed. He scrambled into his clothes, shoving his feet into his shoes and tugging his t-shirt on over his head, then picked the phone back up.

"Mrs. Olliver?”

“Oh, god, help me!”

“We’ll be right there,” Sam said.

They hurried out the door. Sam kept Sandy on the phone while they drove. Dean took the corners fast, and Sam found himself mentally inventorying the contents of the trunk for whatever they might need.

“Sandy, I need you to find a room that has a door with a lock,” Sam said. “Go inside, lock the door. This is going to sound really weird, but get some salt from your kitchen. Pour it across the bottom of the doorway. Maybe move something in front of the door, a chair, or a table, maybe. Can you do that?”

“Yeah, okay,” Sandy said breathlessly. “I can do that. But why salt?” Sam heard more noises, running footsteps, heard the sound of furniture sliding across a wooden floor.

“Just do it, okay?” Sam told her.

They pulled up to the house, and Sam was out of the car before Dean had it in park. They ran to the front door, left standing wide open in the late afternoon heat.

Shotguns in hand, they moved into the house together, shoulder-to-shoulder. Sam had a sudden rush of exhilaration at having Dean by his side on a hunt again. There had been too many lone hunts, silent and grim. He’d missed Dean’s presence at his back, warm and alive. It had been like trying to function with only one arm, or without sight or sound.

There was a sudden rush of cold wind and the front door slammed shut behind them. Sam turned quickly and saw the figure of a teenage girl, bruises on her face and tattered clothing on her back. Dead, angry eyes stared out of her face and long brown hair hung in lank strands around her face. She was dressed in jeans and a ratty-looking red t-shirt.

Dean raised his shotgun and aimed it at the figure, but Sam said, “No, Dean, wait!” He looked at the girl, heard Sandy yelling from the dim recesses of the back of the house. “What do you want?”

She kept staring, and tears rolled down her face. “I want my mother to love me,” she said in a dry, whispery voice. “Why won’t she love me?”

“Why are you here, in this house?” Sam asked, as he edged his way around, trying to get between the ghost and the back of the house where Sandy was hiding.

“I was looking for her, but she’s not here. She left me. I just want her to love me,” the girl whispered.

“What’s your name?” Dean grunted and shook his head, like he couldn’t believe Sam was asking an apparently matricidal ghost her name. Sam ignored him.

“Belinda,” the girl said, and her pale form flickered as she spoke.

“Belinda, your mother, did she -” Sam broke off, not sure how to say it.

“She hurt me,” Belinda said. “And then she left me. Why didn’t she love me?” Her face darkened and her eyes flashed.

“Sam,” Dean said warningly, but Sam was ready. He held up the necklace he had taken from Louise’s body and Belinda’s tears flowed faster.

"It didn't work," she sobbed. “It was supposed to make her love me.”

“Your mom can’t hurt you anymore, Belinda. You need to go now.” Beside him, Dean held up the ringlet of soft brown hair they’d taken out of Belinda’s baby book. In his other hand, he had his Zippo, and he lit the hair on fire and held it, watching it burn with the usual perverse fascination he had for all things fire related.

Belinda’s arms reached out to them beseechingly as flames engulfed her figure, and then she was gone, without even a trace of ashes on the floor to mark her passing.

The house was silent now. Sandy had stopped yelling. The oppressive heat of the day had silenced the birds, and even the ever-present insects were quiet. Sam made as if to go towards the back of the house, to release Sandy and tell her it was over, but Dean stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Leave her ass. Let her know what it’s like to be afraid for a little while longer.” The expression on his face was unreadable, but Sam nodded.

“Okay. Let’s get out of here, then.”

That night, Sam asked again. This time Dean didn't fight him at all.

Sam knew Dean had been watching him since he got back. They got back. Whatthefuckever. Hell, Dean kept an eye on Sam all the time. Sam was used to it, had worn that attention like a second skin all his life. It was just more intense now, since they’d woken up to a new Wednesday, another second chance.

Dean was wary, like he was waiting for something. For the other shoe to drop, or for Sam to freak out.

He looked up at Sam, his eyes full of uncertainty, and Sam couldn’t have that.

He leaned down and kissed his brother, softly at first, then with increased hunger. He put everything he had into it, trying to show Dean all the things he felt. How vital Dean was to Sam’s continued existence, how much he mattered.

They lay together on the bed, Dean’s head cradled in Sam’s hand, as Sam kissed him. Sam lost track of time, didn’t know how long they lay there, just kissing. His lips felt heavy and swollen but still he didn’t stop. Dean’s lips were slick under his, full and warm and Sam wanted to just do this always, and fuck the rest of the world.

Dean shifted restlessly. Sam stretched out next to him, his hand moving slowly up and down Dean’s side, rubbing slow circles in the curve of his lower back, across the swell of his hips.

“Sam,” Dean murmured against his mouth, and Sam licked at him, sucked on his lower lip, tested its softness with his teeth. “C’mon, Sam,” Dean said, trying to pull back. Sam’s other hand tightened on the back of Dean’s neck, holding him in place. “Do something.”

Sam felt a surge of frustration. Sex just wasn’t enough to show Dean, tell him how much he meant to Sam. And words were completely inadequate, especially with someone like Dean, who either couldn’t hear them, or didn’t want to.

“I love you,” Sam whispered as he pressed a kiss against Dean’s temple.

“Sam,” Dean protested. He slung his leg across Sam’s thighs, hooking his foot in the back of Sam’s knees. He moved impatiently, rubbing his dick in the groove of Sam’s hip.

Sam was trying. He tried everyday to keep his shit together, and some days he succeeded better than others. He didn’t know why Dean wouldn’t just let Sam show him. He felt need simmer inside, deep down in his belly, but nothing was ever enough.

Sam shook with it and he clutched at Dean, wrapped his arms around him and buried his face in Dean’s neck and tried to keep breathing.

Suddenly, Dean relaxed and Sam sensed his surrender. He stopped trying to get Sam to fuck him and instead kissed him back with all the love and care Sam had known his whole life. Dean’s skin was warm on his, warm and alive and _present._ Sam couldn’t get enough of it.

When Sam was finally inside, he let Dean take control, let him straddle him and ride him and smile down at him with a rare softness that Sam stored up in his heart.

Dean shifted, tightening around Sam and looking at him seriously. He sighed. "I wish you'd just tell me, Sam." He braced his hands on Sam's chest, leaning down to plant a brief kiss on Sam’s lips.

"Tell you what?" Sam asked, honestly puzzled. He thrust his hips up into the tight heat of Dean's ass.

"What else happened to you. Besides the freaky-ass time loop, I mean." Dean stopped moving and Sam grabbed a little frantically at his hips.

He took a deep breath. "Nothing else happened, Dean. I'm just a little freaked still, that's all." He played his trump card. "You don't think watching you die one hundred and seven times was enough?" He immediately felt shamed by the look of guilt on his brother's face.

“It’s not like I want to leave you, Sammy. I didn’t know what else to do,” Dean said hoarsely, rocking back on Sam's thighs.

“Dean, I don’t want you to feel guilty. I want you to stop fighting me. I want you to let me save you.” Sam pulled in a deep breath, tightened his hold on Dean's hips and fucked up into him. Dean groaned, but didn't say anything else.

He didn’t look away, just stared into Sam’s eyes and nodded, and it was almost like a promise.

There was a certain peace that settled around Sam's heart as he kissed his brother before they fell asleep. He didn't trust it, but he'd take it for now.

 

 _After they’d gone back to Lawrence, when the poltergeist had been in their old house, Mary sometimes came to Sam in flames. He didn’t really like it, but she was beautiful that way, bright and alive and glowing. Her flesh didn’t burn, neither did her white nightgown, and her golden hair blew around her in the hot wind of the fire._

 _Sam didn’t like it because it reminded him of Jess, of how she’d looked on the ceiling, how she’d looked in his dreams in the weeks before she died._

 

When Sam woke up, the first thing he was conscious of was his brother’s arm curved protectively across his chest. Dean’s warm weight was behind him and his warm breath on the back of Sam’s neck sent a shiver down Sam’s spine.

Dean shifted behind him and his breathing changed. Well, _stopped_ might be a better word for it. Sam quit breathing, too, not sure of Dean’s reaction to the night before.

Sam assumed that most of Dean’s morning-afters, if he ever got as far as actual mornings with his usual hookups, consisted of clothing hastily scrambled into and cheerful goodbyes. This would be different for him, then. There was nowhere to go if he left, and Sam knew he couldn’t say goodbye.

There was a soft chuckle behind him. “Breathe, Sammy,” Dean said.

“I will if you will,” Sam retorted. Dean laughed again. It was one of the best sounds Sam had ever heard.

Dean’s arm tightened, then his hand slipped lower on Sam’s belly, fingertips skating over his skin, and Sam felt his stomach muscles flutter.

“That tickles,” he protested, trying to wiggle away. Dean’s arm tightened further. He was strong, but not that strong. Sam moved his elbow under him for leverage and had their positions reversed before Dean could react.

“Fucker,” Dean said fondly. He looked back over his shoulder at Sam. “Well, you got me here. What are you gonna do about it?”

Sam had to close his eyes for a minute at the sight of his brother’s open smile. He hadn’t seen that in a while.

“Sammy?”

“Shh,” Sam said, and he ran his hand down Dean’s chest to rub lightly at his stomach. “Who’s ticklish now?” he teased when Dean squirmed.

“Shut up and fuck me,” Dean growled.

“Sounds like a plan,” Sam agreed. He moved his hand back to Dean’s ass, his fingers easily finding what he wanted.

Dean was still slippery with lube from the night before, and Sam slid a finger inside, slowly fucking in and out, just barely penetrating. Dean squirmed again, and this time his breath caught when he said, “Dammit, Sam.”

Sam pulled his finger out and Dean said, “I swear to god, Sam -”

“I said be quiet,” Sam returned, as he reached behind him for the lube on the nightstand.

He pushed back in with two fingers this time and Dean groaned. Sam smiled, and spent the next ten minutes keeping his brother on the edge, until Dean was incoherent with it. Sam didn’t often get the chance to reduce Dean to sounds instead of words, unless there was food involved, and he found he liked it a lot.

When he pulled his fingers out again, Dean pushed his ass back and, managing to find some very specific words, said, “You better be getting ready to fuck me, or you’re a dead man, Sam.”

“Patience isn’t really your strong suit, is it, Dean?” Sam slicked himself up and pushed inside, closing his eyes at the tightness around his dick.

He fucked Dean slowly, ignoring his demands to go faster. This was his brother, this infuriating man who was more important to Sam than life, his own or anyone else’s. This was important, and no one was taking this away from him. Certainly not Hell.

He came with his chin hooked over Dean’s shoulder, rubbing his cheek against Dean’s, arms tight around his chest, and while he would deny it if Dean mentioned it, he may have said _mine_ as his eyes closed and he gave himself up to sensation. He felt Dean tighten around him, could tell Dean was working himself, his arm moving quickly to bring himself off.

This time Dean wasn’t silent, he came loudly and happily, making Sam smile at the sound of his voice.

“Not even the courtesy of a reach around, Sammy?” Dean murmured sleepily after, settling back against Sam’s chest.

“Shut up,” Sam said, as he decided breakfast could wait another hour or two.

 

 _"Don't tell him, Sam. He can't know."_

 _"Can't know what, Mom? Why won't you ever answer me?" Sam asked plaintively._

 _"Shhh, Sam. It's all my fault." Mary sighed. "I loved John so much."_

 _"I don't know what you mean, Mom. I don't know what you want me to do."_

 _"Whatever you have to do, Sam. Whatever it takes." His mother looked fierce, her eyes shining with something he wasn't used to seeing there. It looked like vengeance._

 _"Okay, Mom. I will. I promise." Sam didn't know what he was promising, only that he couldn't withstand that look on his mother's face._

 _"I love you, Sam," Mary said, and she shimmered and was gone._

 

“So it was just a coincidence that Penelope was selling the same pendant that Belinda’s mother wore? Cuz I gotta tell you, Sammy, I’m not a big believer in coincidences.”

“I don’t think Penelope had anything to do with it, Dean. I think that’s your prejudice against witches talking.” Sam grinned at him.

“Yeah, well, witches are skeevy,” Dean muttered.

“So you keep saying, Dean. I don’t think Penelope is one, anyway.” He shrugged. “She just owns a gift shop.” Sam tucked the last of his dirty jeans into his duffle and zipped it up. He looked around the room one more time, making sure he hadn’t left anything behind. If he had, he sure as hell wasn’t coming back for it. He wasn’t ever setting foot in Florida again as long as he lived, not if he could avoid it. And that was a promise.

Besides, he had a PO box to maneuver Dean towards.

“So what do you say, Sammy. You wanna go to the Circus Museum before we leave here? Ringling Brothers, right here in Sarasota.” Dean leered at Sam, playful joy on his face. For a minute Sam wished he could stop time right here, right now, and have that expression be on his brother’s face forever.

And he remembered, because he could never forget, he remembered that Dean’s life was counting down in days, hours and minutes. Remembered that he, Sam, was the only one who could stop that countdown, and he was going to have to do that in spite of Dean.

The only thing to do was to go forward, towards whatever future there was, but Sam sure as hell wasn’t going to go quietly. There was no way Dean’s future was mapped out for him, no way it was preordained. Dean was always going on about choices, how there was always a choice to be made.

Well, Sam chose to fight to save his brother, and there was nothing and no one who could stop him.

Dean was holding the door open and his smile was even more beautiful in the sun. That was the one thing Sam would miss about Florida. The light. His brother was beautiful in the light.

“I bet there’s an ass-load of clowns at that museum, Sammy. What do you say we check it out?”

Sam rolled his eyes and shoved his brother out the door.

 

  


**Author's Note:**

>  **AN:** Sam absolutely broke my heart in Season 4, and _Mystery Spot_ seems to me to be the point when ~~he started his slow descent into madness~~ things started to go pear-shaped for him. I wanted to explore that moment.
> 
> Title ~~stolen from~~ courtesy of James Reiss. Opening line by Lennon and McCartney.
> 
> Thanks as always to Ashley, who came around, even though this wasn’t the story she wanted me to write. As the other half of my brain, it was necessary for her to be on board.
> 
> Thanks to for listening to me whine about how hard it is to write, omg.
> 
> Thanks to for the most wonderful and helpful beta.
> 
> Thanks to for the fabulous art and also for her beta. She found so many typos and mistakes, you wouldn’t believe. She has eagle eyes.
> 
> And of course, thanks to , and for this most amazing challenge.


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